


The Freak?

by ca_hawkins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Holmes Parents are Entirely Different from Canon, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Loyal to the Episodes, Teen Everyone, Teen John Watson, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Unilock, Written before Series 3, Young-Adult Mycroft, bullied!Sherlock, but not completely, well...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:09:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 70,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_hawkins/pseuds/ca_hawkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock "Freak" Holmes. Who is the Freak? John Watson, adrenaline-seeking as ever, decides to find out more abou the School Genius. Little did he know how complicated his life will be after their encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Freak?

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I do not own these characters. 
> 
> I use pronouns such as "he" and "she" instead of "I" to indicate whose POV it is. You will know whose POV it is if I don't mention his or her name outside the dialogues.
> 
> I try to stick as close to the canon episodes as much as possible. This fic does not indicate actual ships but if you squint, ANY ship can be implied in my fic to satisfy all readers. The main focus on the story is Sherlock and John's relationship.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this!

A teenager walks through the sea of other teenagers. Walking as average as ever, according to himself anyway, John Watson, Captain of the Rugby Team, is feared and admired by his peers.  He walks with his teammates (though them following him is a more accurate description).

People often talk about him. John Watson the swot. John Watson the brave. John Watson the doctor. Most of the time, they say Watson can brutally and mercilessly snap you in two but can also tend your wounds with a gentle touch.

* * *

He had already said goodbye to his teammates and told them that he will be going home and sleep though he is now in the library. Everyone seems right about him. He may be the Captain but he's also a smart swotty bastard. He secretly thinks that  _that_ is why people  _want_ him. 

He quietly reads about Advance Maths when he hears someone sit beside him.

"Hey, John," Sally Donovan, the head girl, says.

"Hey, Sally." He smiles politely. They're not exactly close but they get along well. He respects her drive for her career, and she to him.

"Oh dear lord," she mutters as she glances at the book that he is currently holding. " _Maths_. I understand it but it sure gives me hell."

"Which is why I'm studying it. This thing sucks hell." He shakes the book for emphasis and they both laugh.

"By the way, have you seen Greg?" Sally asks.

"No, why?"

"Well, I just want to give him my part of the project. That bastard thinks he's the boss." She rolls her eyes with a smile. "Though, technically, he _is_ the boss, but I don't like him thinking that."

He chuckles. "Yeah, well, good luck finding him, Sally. I'll be here studying if you need anything."

"Right."

Sally stands up and he is pleased to finally go back to his book, but yet again he is interrupted. This time, he hears a yelp of surprise.

He looks up to see Sally, who is now angry, and books all over the ground and  _him_ , picking up the said books. He instantly forgets about the book he is holding and uses it to secretly watch Sally and Holmes in front of him with curious eyes.

"Really, Sally? You can't even try to avoid bumping into me? Judging from the position of how you were walking, I would assume that you have the eyes to avoid people in front of you."

"Well, you're not exactly _people_ , are you?" Sally asks sarcastically. "Hmm?"

"Why on Earth would I even think of myself as _people_?" Holmes spits the word as if it's an insult. "Especially if you're in it. I don't wish to be categorised with someone who chose Anderson as a partner in a _love affair,_ " Holmes says the word with such disgust that even Sally is disgusted with the tone of his voice. Though to be fair, he knows that Sally would be disgusted by Holmes no matter what.

"I don't need to hear anything that comes out of your mouth, Freak."

"Freak? That's all you can come up with? _Freak_? A five-letter word with only one syllable?" Holmes laughs. "I know far more insults than that," he chuckles.

"You?" Sally mocks. "No one cares about what a psychopath has to say."

"High-functioning sociopath," Holmes corrects.

"Sociopath? Psychopath? Who cares? You? Oh like you ever cared about anything!" Sally exclaims.

"Oh, I care a lot. Deeply. Especially for you," Holmes adds and Sally looks at him suspiciously. "Because Anderson's girlfriend is the person standing directly behind you this whole time. Oh Sally Sally Sally, you're in big trouble."

" _You're_ in big trouble after I squash your head like a grape!"

"I won't be in trouble. I'd be dead."

"Get out of here, Freak!"

"Gladly."

And Sherlock Holmes gives Sally Donovan a victorious smirk before leaving. He noticed that Holmes had a smug look in his eyes as he left. When Holmes is out of eye-shot, Sally turns around and makes up reasons to Anderson's girlfriend. John doesn't even bother to listen to their argument which lead them to be kicked out of the library.

He thinks more about Holmes. Honestly, he believes Holmes is such an arse. Though he can't help but admit that Holmes is also smart. A smart-arse. Perfect title.

Although it makes him feel uncomfortable how he takes Donovan's derogatory term for him as if it's his name.

The Freak?

That seems harsh... but there's this little voice - the voice that quietly agrees with his teammates - the one that sounds like a douche, and is currently telling him that Holmes  _is_ a freak.

He quickly denies this and thinks, ' _No. Holmes is a bloody weird bloke, but a freak? That's too harsh a name. Who can even live with that term brought to you? Holmes? Well, that's unfortunate._ '

* * *

There has been a lot of things that apparently concerns the  _great_ Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, he's got himself a reputation. There are whispers. He finally observed the said teenager. Whenever Holmes walks through the crowd of fellow-teenagers, the crowd would part. Because of disgust and anger? John wouldn't know. But he observed that Holmes even looks satisfied with the arrangement.

Odd guy.

Who likes being avoided as if you're a virus? And that is exactly what many people think Holmes is. A virus. Thankfully, he isn't  _contagious_ , others say. He never actually encountered Holmes before the incident with Sally before. Rumours say that Holmes would be completely merciless with his words. Hmm.

* * *

Later, after an interesting day from observing one Sherlock Holmes at school, he approaches Sally. "Hey, Sally, success on finding Greg?"

"Yup. Good thing, too. I was starting to panic!" she laughs.

He finally asks, "Listen, earlier today, Holmes... I just want to ask, why do you call him a freak?"

"The Freak? What do you mean?" she asks with a confused tone. "Everyone calls him that."

He thinks hard. "Yes, well... I just want to ask why _you_ call him that. You, specifically."

"Why?"

"I want to ask the Head Girl's perspective."

"Okay... The Freak?... God, where to start? Er, first of all, that arsehole is a complete know-it-all who just won't shut up until everyone's ears are bleeding. Acts all powerful and like he owns the place. What an arsehole! God... He isn't even human. I don't think so. There's no trace of humanity on that person. He's a machine, that's what he is. I saw him cut worms once and he poured some kind of liquid on them. I mean, who the hell does that? He even looks satisfied with what he was doing. What a _freak_!" 

He winces at the word. Not for Holmes's sake, but because of how it was delivered. He knows Sally absolutely means the word.

"Oh," he whispers.

"Oh?"

"That's all I can say, 'Oh'," he tells her.

"Right. Listen, did the Freak bother you today? I mean, why are you even asking?"

"Dunno. I guess I got curious."

"Right. I think I should warn you to stay away from that guy. Anyway, I have to go now. Bye, John."

"Bye, Sally."

Finally, after an exhausting day, he makes his way back to his lonely home. 


	2. Observing Holmes

But ever since he actually witnessed Holmes's argument with Sally (though probably a normal conversation between the two), he became curious. He may not have met the infamous Sherlock Holmes but he has certainly gained more information about the said teenager. He is currently torn between believing those stories or go against them.

He know deep inside him that what they say about him is cruel - even for someone who is Sherlock Holmes - but this little thought in his mind concludes that this bloody prick is an arse, probably an annoying dick as well.

Both thoughts of going against and believing the stories are in a jumble. It is true that Holmes can be a great arse, especially with words he could not control, but it may also be because everyone treats him wrongly like he's nothing instead of seeing him as a human being, so Holmes doesn't bother to be nice to those who misinterpret him. 

' _I hope I'm not the only one who thinks he's human,_ ' he thinks to himself.

He starts observing Holmes, unsure whether to confirm people's stories or to deny them. He's not sure about this 'trick' people say that Holmes does.

' _Maybe he's just an odd bloke, or maybe he's just as an arse as everyone thinks he is,_ ' he tells himself.

That confirms it. He is definitely going to start observing Holmes.

* * *

He walks through the same suffocating crows when he sees him again. There's Holmes on the other side of the school's back garden. He seems to be staring at a rose bush - just crouching there, looking. Holmes is perfectly still, with eyes focused on the rose bush. He is currently too far away to see what Holmes is actually looking at, so Holmes looks absolutely ridiculous in his point of view.

' _What the bloody hell is he doing there?_ '

Suddenly, an arm touches his shoulder. "John," Greg's voice behind him says.

He turns. "Greg."

"What are you doing there? Looking at some girl?" Greg teases, following his gaze and sees Holmes at the back garden and is still staring at the rose bush. "Ohhh... Looking at him then?" Greg chuckles. "Are you planning to punch him or something?"

He mentally scowls and disapproves of what Greg had just said. He thought Greg would be decent enough not to think like that, especially since he is the Head Boy.

"No, it's just-" he gestures to Holmes.

"Oh, good," Greg says in a relief. He tilts his head at Greg who simply shrugs in answer to his confusion. "Hey, I don't want anyone fighting with anyone 'round here, ya know? This is my corridor and I want order." And just like that, his respect for Greg rises back up again. "Hold on," Greg adds. "If you're not planning to punch him in the face, then what _are_ you doing staring at Holmes?"

' _Holmes Holmes Holmes Holmes,_ ' his thought says. His guess is that Greg doesn't think of Holmes as a freak either, unlike others.

"Just observing," he replies.

"Why?" Greg asks in confusion and after a few short moments, his face morphs into something he would call as understanding. "Oh."

"Oh? Oh, what?"

"Are you - I don't know - are you, you know, gay?" Greg asks.

He looks at Greg with confusion. "Huh? What? No. No, I'm not gay," he asks in a mildly amused tone.

"Ahhh."

"Yeah, I'm just curious why he's doing that." He gestures towards Holmes again who is still immobile.

"Oh, he always does that. No one knows what he's doing really, but he just... does..."

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"What do _you_ think of Holmes?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Curious." He shrugs.

"Holmes? Hmm... Well, he's an alright bloke, I suppose. I don't know. Smart, but unfortunately thinks everyone's an idiot... but, aren't we all?" Greg smiles. His respect for Greg raised beyond all expectations at the moment.

"Oh there, he's standing up," he exclaims.

They both watch as Holmes jumps up in the air with a huge grin on his face, even putting both his fists in the air like he just won a million pounds or something of the sort.

"I AM BRILLIANT!" they hear him yell.

"How modest," he comments and Greg laughs.

Holmes starts to look like he is mumbling to himself, turning in circles with a smile as he claps his hands in glee. He, then, looks down at the rose bush once more and gets something - something too small for both Greg and him to see and they see him run off.

"Whoa, hyper guy, is he?" he tells Greg who chuckles knowingly.

"That's not even his most hyper form," he comments and they both leave for Rugby Practice.

* * *

A few days later, because of his luck, he got a bloody detention for being late in class. How the universe loves punishing him. Hell, it wasn't even his fault that he woke up too late. He blames Harry for being absolutely pissed last night that he had to drive up to the bar where she is at to bring her home.

He walks inside the room and sees Holmes sitting at the back of the classroom, eyes cold and icy, looking out at the window to his left with a bored expression.

They sit there in silence - all five of them in detention.

After an hour, they were all finally allowed home. During those sixty minutes, he secretly observes Holmes through the windows. He thinks it is rather odd for Holmes to walk while looking at his left - as if there's something on his shoulder all the time. It is somehow a bit impressive that he can dodge anything in front of him even if he is not looking straight ahead.

He notices that Holmes is walking rather clumsily but he doesn't do anything to help Holmes in fear of something even he doesn't know yet. Is it because he is afraid of what Holmes might think, or is it because he fears that he might just get angry if Holmes says something horrible about him and he becomes like the others he has reprimanded, or if he's just a big chicken?

He watches as Holmes walks home, which fortunately is the same block of which he passes everyday. He can only see Holmes's back facing him but it's his turn to his block which is on the left. He steals a glance at Holmes again to see Holmes looking at the front this time - as if purposely hiding his face from him. Odd.

* * *

He comes to school the next day when one of his teammates, Sebastian Moran, starts boasting about "punching the weird-arse freak's face like a bad-arse."

And he couldn't help the lump on his throat and the clenching of his fists when he realised that Holmes has been hiding his  _bruised_ face, probably in shame.

Moran continues his boasts to the other Rugby players. 

"The bitch just fell on the ground like a sissy!" and they all roar in laughter. "Then the faggot tried to punch me but White came and saw the freak about to punch back. She then just started shouting his name and the Freak just looked goddamned funny!"

It seems that they're all running out of air to breathe from laughing.

"Idiot got distracted enough not to hit me! Bitchsquealer just missed! The Freak just looked sooo stupid! Oh man, you should have been there!"

He may not know Holmes  _at all_ , but it's hard to listen to them have fun and make fun of another bloke's unlucky state - especially that they were the one who inflicted Holmes's misfortunes. To laugh at someone who just got punched in the face - that must be worse than what Holmes does, right?

Holmes must be lonely, but seems to like it when he's alone. He believes that  _that_ is a mere façade. He doesn't believe Holmes is not lonely.

He promises to himself to talk to Holmes the next time he sees him again.


	3. Flying Data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not worry. I can assure you that the chapters get longer and longer as time passes by.

Saturday. And here we have him walking by the park with his earphones on, bopping his head as he listens to good music he loves so much. When he feels like no one is watching, the occasional pose and dance take over. He feels the music, snapping his fingers, and he poses with his arms opened freely. Then he looks around and makes sure no one saw him before continuing on like nothing happened and he didn't just embarrass himself.

Which makes him pale when he felt skin touch the back of his head when he posed another open-armed pose.

He quickly turns around to see dark curly-brown hair kneeling in front of him exclaiming, "No! No! My work!" A familiar voice.

Immediately, he crouches down to help this brown-haired stranger and starts picking up some books, folders, and papers, although there are still flying papers around them.

"Oh bloody hell! I am so sor-"

He stops short when a pair of blue-green-gold eyes stare right at him. Holmes.

' _It's Holmes!_ ' his mind screams in a panic.

He quickly picks up all of Holmes's things which he can easily pick up and clears his throat as silence washes all over them.

"There goes my data," Holmes's deep voice says. "It's flying everywhere."

He sighs and picks up the things he was not able to pick up and those that did not get wet from the nearby puddles surrounding them both. He, then, notices Holmes rub his cheek and finally see fading bruises on his face.

"I'm sorry, I should have been more careful," he tells Holmes apologetically.

Holmes looks at him as if he's gone bonkers.

"What? No. You need not apologise. You've been busy listening to probably boring music and have been carried away with the stupidity of the message it brings,' Holmes scoffs.

He frowns. He's listening to the Beatles. ' _The Beatles!_ '

"I'm listening to _good_ music, for your information. Deal with it," he snaps.

"I didn't ask if it was good music. I simply said that it is _probably_ boring like most people who listen to them." Holmes raises his brow challengingly.

Oh, he wants to strangle him alright. He gives Holmes a murderous glare - the glare which makes even Moran uncomfortable, but it seems that id does not have an effect on Holmes.

"Listen here, _Holmes_ ," he spits his name and Holmes gives out a small victorious smirk. He points at him angrily. "You better keep that bloody wild mouth of yours shut before I lose my sanity."

"And why would I stop if it benefits you instead of me?"

"Because when I become insane, I become _insane_ ," he means. Holmes raises his head for a millisecond - probably only now realising that the anger he is currently feeling is real and dangerous.

Holmes tuts. "Well that's unfortunate for someone who aspires to become a doctor, don't you think?"

He blinks at this. He has been recently aware of Holmes's little mind-reading trick. ' _But how did this bastard know that I want to be a doctor?_ ' he thinks.

"What-? How did you-?" he starts to ask.

"How did I know that you want to be a doctor?" Holmes asks and he gives a small nod in answer. "Well, it's easy. It is clear that you have an extensive knowledge in Medicine. I often notice you reading books upon the matter - large books, may I add. You love helping others. That much is said from the way you treat those who are injured in a Rugby match - quick and without hesitation, sometimes getting a tiny bit aggressive when your ways are not met because they were blocked by idiots. You have the patience and composure of a doctor. Calm and you have an idea of what is okay and not okay to say. Even if you aspire to become a doctor, there is this part of you that still loves the adrenaline rush of a good fight, or at least, a good match.

"Plus, may I add that your mother is a doctor as well and you see her as an inspiration of sorts instead of your father who is an alcoholic. Not an aggressive father or a violent one, but annoyingly still an alcoholic, judging from the fact that he even gave you that phone. It's been in the pockets along with keys and coins - a gift then. Additionally, the fashion is about a year ago and the model of the phone is the kind that a man of what your father's age would use... So, kind father but has a history of alcoholism. Evident from the plug for the charger which has scratches around it - you never see that amount of scratches in a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.

"The same goes to your brother whose girlfriend he left. Seeing the coat you are wearing with the small embroidery saying 'To Harry Watson. From Clara xxx.' Obviously, Clara gave this to Harry. Three kisses means attachment. Now Harry gave this to you - he wouldn't just let you borrow it if the sentiment is still attached. If she left him, he would have kept it, but _no_ , he gave it to you, so _he_ left  _her._ "

He asks. "How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark, good one though. The zipper of your coat is clearly been zipped up and down clumsily by shaking fingers, judging from the amount of times that the zipper is clearly reattached - about more than ten times. The amount of times indicates that this has been an ongoing problem. Now, it may just be emotional breakdowns but he wouldn't break this coat since it had sentimental value to it and he wouldn't get angry seeing as he left her. If that was the case, then it would be, probably, but the amount of the zipper breaking is too much for an emotional breakdown. So, shaking hands, clumsy, bit aggressive... plus, the stench of alcohol is still there. Simple."

He blinks once, twice, thrice. "Ahuh." He can't help but be impressed by how much Holmes's mind can do.

' _What the hell? This guy must be psychic! I mean, whoa! That's brilliant._ '

"That is... That is just..."

He looks down at the embroidery on his coat. He raises his phone to his eye-level and indeed, sees the marks on the phone. He looks back at Holmes and finds him in a strange stance.

He may not be as brilliantly observant as Sherlock Holmes but he does have a brain of his own. He's pretty sure that Holmes's closed fists, stiff posture, and clenched jaws mean something. Holmes's face tiled a bit to one side, looking down a bit. His hair makes it impossible to see if his eyes are closed or not. But obviously, Holmes is awaiting a blow to the face.

"That... was amazing," he finally manages to say.

He startles at the quick movement of Holmes's head which was looking down and is now looking straight at him. Holmes's eyes are both focused and lost at the same time. Holmes relaxes his posture and stands up with his hands in the pockets of his black Belstaff coat. He doesn't even want to think how much that coat must cost.

Holmes hesitates. "You think so?"

"Yes, of course, it was. It was extraordinary." He looks down at his phone again. "It was quite extraordinary..."

"That's not what people always say," Holmes says, looking at the empty road.

"What do people always say."

Holmes looks at him. "Piss off!" and gives him a smile.

He feels good, for a moment, for managing to make the well-known cold Sherlock Holmes smile, but a shiver runs down his spine when he sees the expression on Holmes's face after the smile. The teenager looks down in thought. Holmes's face is quite impassive but he can see right through that façade. He doesn't know how but he does.

"Wait... How did you know that my mother's a doctor?" he asks.

Holmes looks up again at him and his eyes are cold. Holmes simply shrugs in reply which John finds odd. ' _Seriously? A minute ago, you wanted to show-off the socks off of me and now you're not going to answer to a simple answer worth showing-off to?_ '

"Come on, Holmes." He playfully punches Holmes's arm. Holmes steps back almost unnoticeably and looks at him, confused. He looks back at Holmes just as confused. "Was it something I said?" he asks all of a sudden.

"No... No... It's nothing..." Holmes answers and blinks a few times, putting his head down and closing his eyes as if trying to compose himself.

' _Is he tearing up?!_ ' he thinks to himself.

Suddenly and defensively, he starts saying, "Whoa whoa whoa... sorry... what did I say?.. I? Sorry!" He leans down to see if Holmes is, indeed, crying, but he can't see.

Holmes gives a shaky breath and then suddenly stands up tall with a proud posture. He jumps up, startled. ' _Good. He didn't tear up, then_ ,' he thinks. ' _What the heck just happened? Maybe I just imagined it all. Of course I didn't._ '

"Was there anything wrong?" Holmes asks.

"Just one."

"What?"

"Harry's short for Harriet." He swears Holmes just became a statue made of stone.

"Harry's your sister? SISTER?! There's always something!" Holmes rants, looking quite disappointed with himself.

"Okay..." He can't help but ask what happened to Holmes when he asked about his mother. "But what just-? Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please."

Holme-  _Sherlock_ offers his hand and he thinks that this is all too ridiculous since they had already met and spoke too long and such. Anyway, he grabs his hand and shakes it. 

"Hello. John Watson, again. Sorry about bumping you earlier. Now there's flying data everywhere."

Holmes snorts. "Flying data... That is one way of describing it."


	4. These Interviews

Before today, usually, he would walk through the suffocating sea of students to get to class. But as of today, the crowd is starting to part away from him, giving him more space to walk than usual. People have been staring at him.

Some are giving him these winks, and some are looking at him as if he's going to snap their necks at any minute. There are some who randomly give him a pat on the back saying, "Good luck, John!" and some are giving him a knowing nod like there's some nasty business going on.

He doesn't know what to make of it.

* * *

Unknowingly to the teenager, apparently, word has spread out that the Captain of the Rugby Team, John Watson, is planning a beating for one Sherlock Holmes, the School Genius. Also, everyone at school knows about the details except for: the school staff, Holmes (or maybe he does know?) and Watson himself.

The rumours started somewhere and the two teenagers have no idea of what's to come. People have been whispering and gossiping about the upcoming fight. Some are even excited to know what Holmes would look like after Watson had beaten him up - everyone knows that Watson can give a punch.

They'll know tomorrow, since word has come out that Watson will be beating up Holmes after class.

* * *

The whole day, he has grown more and more confused with everyone's behaviour towards him. People are even treating him like he is a king or a hero. Every time he asks, people would just smile and laugh, saying that he's acting all mysterious for them but 'they already know.' Everyone is being cryptic towards him about something and they expect that he knows about it and that he is playing along. In truth, he remains oblivious throughout the whole day.

As he was walking to the library, he was stopped with an, "Oi, John!" He turns to see Greg walking towards him.

"Yes?" he asks.

"I heard you're planning to beat up Holmes... I thought you said you're not gonna do that?"

"What?!"

His mind goes blank. A series of emotions shocks his brain. First, shock enters his mind. ' _Everyone thinks I'm going to beat up someone?_ ' The next thought was confusion. ' _Where the hell did this come from? How did this rumour start?_ ' Then, there is disappointment. ' _To think that everyone thinks I am capable of actually beating someone up for no reason..._ ' Then, that is when a lump in his throat forms. ' _If everyone is treating me like some bloody king just because they think I am going to beat up Sherlock, that's... that's just... that's disgusting._ '

"Where the hell did that come from?" he roars.

"Look, you don't have to lie to me, John. Everyone already knows about it. This guy saw you give Holmes that scary murderous look on your face yesterday. You know, the one you usually give to the people you beat up." Greg gives him a disapproving glare.

"Oi! I only beat up bullies!"

"Well, you're a bully now, too, so..."

He is utterly and completely appalled as of now. "I will  _NOT_ nor did I ever plan on beating up Sherlock Holmes!"

"Then why does everything think so, hmm?" Greg asks.

"Because that guy probably just saw me get angry when Sherlock said the Beatles is boring and started insulting me with my _boring music._ "

"Oh," Greg says. "Your favourite band."

"Yup."

Silence engulfs the two teens. "Well, I guess I owe you an apology, John. Sorry... I just thought that you became like Moran or something. Since you were staring at Holmes yesterday, I thought you're planning on targeting Holmes, just like Moran."

He mockingly places a hand on his heart and leaning back to fake-almost faint. "Oh, my stars! That broke my poor dear little heart, my sweet Greg. You know me more than that, my beloved."

"Stop that!" Greg laughs. "But yeah.. I shouldn't have jump to conclusions."

"Seriously."

A pause. "Ooooooooooooooooh..."

"What?"

"You called him _Sherlock_."

"Did I?"

"Yup."

"Ahhh, yes."

"So...?"

"So?"

"Are you two dating?"

He looks at Greg. "A few minutes ago you were accusing me of planning to beat him up and now, this? Like you said, you really shouldn't jump to conclusions again. And no, we're _not_ dating."

"But... ' _Sherlock_ '?"

"We officially met yesterday."

"I know. Everyone kind of knows about that. But _really_ , John? ' _Sherlock_ '? Wedding bells are ringing."

"We met. That is it."

"Right, right." Greg smirks. "Right, I'm gonna go now, mate. Bye, John. Sorry again about accusing you of beating up your boyfriend."

"He's _not_ my boyfriend!" He yells out at Greg who is running off.

He shakes his head in disbelief and then chuckles at the absurdity of the conversation. That is, until, he remembers the rumours concerning him and Sherlock.

* * *

The day continues with lots of questions about the upcoming "beating." Everyone is making him sick the more intuitive questions they ask.

' _Why would anyone be excited about beating up someone? Sherlock can be an arse, yes, but he doesn't deserve to get beaten up for lacking social skills. No one does._ '

To those asking, he simply just ignores them and pretends not to hear them or mumbles inaudibly at them to the point that no one understands a word he says in the hope of everyone leaving him alone.

* * *

He quietly and secretly does his homework (to be honest, doing your homework on the same _hour_ it was given is, apparently, what swots like him do, considering that the homework is due next week), when Sally sits beside him and gives him her full attention as he writes.

"Heard you met the Freak yesterday."

He internally winces at the word. He keeps his eyes on his homework, purposefully avoiding looking at Sally. He doesn't want to look at her accusing yet approving eyes at the moment.

"Yes. I met _Sherlock_ while I was walking. We had pleasant conversation."

"So... You're going to beat up the Freak, huh?" Sally asks and he sighs at this. But before he says anything, Sally cuts him off. "Look, John. Even though we both know that the Freak is the absolute worst freak of all the freaks in this bloody planet, and everyone hates him. Don't beat up the arsehole. I know, I know. I want to beat him up myself and to be honest, there is this sick part of me that wants to see him get beaten up. But come on, John. Violence isn't worth it. No one deserves that."

His eyebrows rise in surprise. No. He definitely did not expect this. Sally may be a bitch sometimes but she is a decent Head Girl. At least, decent enough to be against bullying and violence even if the victim would be someone she hates. I guess the school was right in picking Sally as the Head Girl - completely fair and fearsome.

"Sally, I'm not going to beat up anyone."

"No need to lie, John! Everyone knows about it already!"

"Those are just rumours!"

"Why should I believe you?" she asks with narrowed eyes.

"Because I actually witnessed him use his mind-reading abilities on me and I was amazed by it. Now, if I was a true bully, would I admit that I like Sherlock? As a colleague, of course, I don't want to give you any more false rumours to spread."

"Ohhh.."

"Yes. Oh," he replies, going back to his unfinished homework.

"If you _tell anyone_ that I just tried to stop you from beating up the Freak, I will-"

"No need to threaten me, Queen Sally."

Sally huffs and says, "Ha. Ha," in a dark tone. He chuckles at that.

"Listen, Sally. It's nice to talk but these interviews are getting on my nerves."

"Interviews?"

"Interrogation, most likely. Everyone is worse than the bloody media at the moment."

"And you'd know about that, would you?" Sally snorts. "But I get what you mean." Sally stands up and goes back to her seat and he continues his homework which is almost done.

' _I am a bloody swot._ '

* * *

Rugby practice is cancelled which he scoffs at. He already changed his clothes! Of course he will not be amused! Among the team, he is the last one to get out of the changing room and out to walk home. That is, until he has to go back because he left his phone.

As he passes through the alley beside the school. He hears someone yell, "Oi! Watson!" He turns to see his teammates at the end of the alley, looking at him with wide evil grins. He runs towards them to find out what is going on.

As he moves closer, he sees a figure trapped in the corner. Pale skin. Black coat. Bruised. He's now ten feet from them and sees Sherlock looking dangerously angry.

Moran puts a hand on John's shoulder. "Mate, we got the Freak for you. Come on! We've been waiting for this! We all _know_ you've been waiting for this! Come on! Beat him up! Beat him up!" Everyone starts chanting. Moran pushes him towards Sherlock and the two meet each other's eyes.

He can see the look of anger towards him. He can see that Sherlock despises him at the moment, hidden behind that cold mask of his. He knows that Sherlock might think that he is one of them. He can hear his teammate's chanting, snickers, and excitement behind him. He's the only one standing between Sherlock and his team.

He squares his shoulder and sees only red. But he also saw Sherlock's eyes crack a bit of fear in them and he just wants to vomit if Sherlock really thinks that he will actually beat him up.

He turns around to face Moran with his deathly glare - worse than ever. They step back a little.

"Oi, Captain! We said beat _him_ up. Not us," one of his team says.

* * *

"I will _not_ beat up Sherlock," he hears him say.

He watches the scene in front of him with curious eyes. His eyebrows rise at the mention of his name.  _HIS_ name. His actual name. Not a nickname or a derogatory term. But his Christian name.

"Leave. Him. Alone." John continues. "And get out of my sight!" They run. 

John is helping him? Why is he helping him? Does John need something from him? Not academics, John is perfectly capable. But what does John want from him? Or is he going to beat him up in private?

* * *

"And get out of my sight!" They all turn to run away. He can see them run frantically. He turns to Sherlock with soft eyes. He doesn't want to scare the guy, considering what he thought was going to happen. He lifts Sherlock's arms and turns his head side to side. "You alright?"

Sherlock looks at him in confusion. "What? Me? Umm... Yes, yes, I'm fine," he mumbles quietly.

"Sorry about them. Everyone kind of believes that I'm going to beat you up." Sherlock looks at him suspiciously. "I'm not! I don't approve of violence."

"And yet you play Rugby."

He chuckles. "True." He helps Sherlock stand up and Sherlock tumbles. He instantly holds Sherlock up but is pushed away. "Whoa, mate. You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Sherlock moves his hands from holding his arm as he tries to help him. "I don't need any help. I said I'm fine."

"Damn hell you're fine. I'm helping you walk home."

"There's no-"

"This isn't up for debate."

"Alright, doctor."

He puts Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and helps him walk.

"Where to?" he asks.

"Baker Street."


	5. Baker Street

"Baker Street?" he asks. "Is that where you live?"

"In a... way," Sherlock replies dismissively.

"What do you mean by that?" he asks in a confused tone.

Sherlock's lips twitch upwards for a fraction of a second. "Well, I... always seem to go there... more often... rather than my... actual residence."

"And who _really_ lives in Baker Street?" he asks since he is concerned about who Sherlock is with. He has to know who he is leaving Sherlock with, who will help Sherlock get up on his feet.

"Someone I... am _very_ fond... of," Sherlock answers with a smile, as they slowly walk from the alley.

' _Well, I was definitely not expecting that. I thought people say that he doesn't like anyone? I guess people don't really know Sherlock much._ '

"Your girlfriend?" he asks. "...or boyfriend?" he adds. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know... it's fine," Sherlock replies. "And relationships... are not my... area." He snorts. "And no, she... is definitely not my... girlfriend." He starts to laugh but then winces in pain.

He hails a cab and conveniently, one immediately appears in front of them. Slowly, he helps Sherlock get inside. The said teen sits quietly and closes his eyes as he leans by the cab's window. He sits beside him and Sherlock looks at him in confusion.

"What?" he asks the confused teen.

"...Nothing," Sherlock answers, leaning on the window once more.

They sit in silence.

"Where to?" the cabbie asks.

"22...1B... Baker Str-street," Sherlock answers in a mere whisper, as if tired.

"I think we should go to the hospital," he tells Sherlock. Even the cabbie didn't start the car yet.

"N-no... 22... 1B..." Sherlock insists.

"But you need-!"

"No."

"Fine."

The cab drives off and the two sit in silence. Sherlock keeps finding a comfortable way to sit down, quietly wincing in pain in the process - probably trying hard not to be heard but either him or the cabbie. Although, he can hear Sherlock struggling to get in a not-so-painful sitting position.

' _God, is this how he spends most of his time?_ ' he thinks with disgust. ' _Those bastards will get some sense knocked into them through cold hard practice tomorrow._ ' He drifts off as the thought of his team towering over Sherlock, beating him up, pops into his mind.

"What is it... John Wat...son?" Sherlock suddenly says.

"What?" He snaps out of his thoughts and sees Sherlock staring right at him. "You keep shifting from your seat. What are you thinking about? It clearly concerns me since your eye drifts towards me in more than one occasion." He notices that Sherlock's voice sounds quiet and really  _really_ tired.

"I..." He clears his throat. ' _Those eyes of yours look really old. Too old for your age._ ' "I just want to apologise," he tells Sherlock.

"What?.. What.. for?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head in confusion.

"I want to apologise because of what my team did. I didn't know that they- I'm really sor-"

"I don't want... to hear you... apologise."

He looks down in guilt. ' _Oh damn. Stupid. I am stupid. Why did I bother to say sorry? Of course he wouldn't just take it. The man just got beaten up, for Christ's sake!_ ' "Oh, right..." he mumbles.

"No no no no," Sherlock says quickly. "I meant that... I don't... want to h-hear...  _your_ apologies... Nor theirs, I su-suppose..."

' _Oh, wow. Wait... Sherlock doesn't want to hear those arseholes apologise to him?_ '

Sherlock continues. "I want them to grow brains," he adds as if hearing his thoughts and answering them. "Seriously, the severity of the lack of intelligence in this generation is vast. Idiots, the lot," Sherlock tuts and he chuckles.

The two of them keep quiet in comfortable silence as the cab continues to drive. He can't help but ask. 

"Seriously, who are we meeting in 221B Baker Street?"

"You'll... meet her... soon enough," Sherlock answers mysteriously.

"So, a girl you're so fond, then?" he asks cheekily. "Fancy her, do you?"

Sherlock laughs out loud, causing him to gasp in pain. He is not sure whether he should feel proud or guilty for making Sherlock laugh. Maybe, a bit of both.

"Oh, if you... only... know," Sherlock says.

"Who is she?" he asks.

"A-appa...rently, a girl I... fancy," Sherlock sniggers.

"You seriously need a hospital."

"No."

After five minutes, they arrive in front of a black door and on gold letters - 221B.

"Right," Sherlock says.

Sherlock, then, painfully tries to reach in his coat pockets to probably find his wallet and blinks a few times. He notices this and so he reaches to his own pockets and pays the cabbie himself.

"What?" he hears him breathlessly say.

Sherlock looks at him in surprise not for what reason, he doesn't know. So he pretends to be busy with his own clothes so Sherlock doesn't get embarrassed for being surprised. He knows enough that Sherlock is a proud person.

"So, this is the infamous 221B Baker Street, then," he says, standing up and helping Sherlock by placing his arm around his shoulders and wraps his own arm around Sherlock's waist when he sees Sherlock struggling and failing to get out of the cab.

"Infamy implies... that t-the place has a-a bad rep...reputation... I can... assure you, i-it does not," Sherlock comments breathlessly.

Knowing the severity of the situation, he knocks on the door to 221B and as he waits, he can hear Sherlock breathing more and more shakily, more and more struggling to stand. He looks at Sherlock who has gone all pale.

The door finally opens to reveal a kind-looking woman.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaims and rushingly goes down the few steps of 221B. "What happened?" the old lady asks him immediately, as she helps him walk Sherlock up the stairs.

' _Is she his mother? Nah... They don't even look alike much._ '

"He-" he starts.

"I fell..." Sherlock cuts him off, giving the old lady a smile. "Mrs... Hud-Hudson..." Sherlock says. "J-John Watson..."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson says in such sadness. "Come on in," she opens the door to the flat for them. "Where does it hurt apart from your face?" she asks Sherlock as they all enter.

"I'm fine," Sherlock answers with the same smile.

He just stares at Sherlock in admiration.

' _God, he does not even want to worry her. How very... human of him... SHERLOCK_ IS _HUMAN! The hell are you thinking, Watson! Of course, of course._ '

Sherlock removes himself from the both of them and tries to walk towards the stairs and there he goes. Every time he or Mrs Hudson tries to help him when Sherlock sways, he moves away as if burned. He stares in amazement at how strong Sherlock can be. He is obviously physically weak enough to collapse at any given moment and yet here he is, managing to walk up the steps. 

He finally moves to follow the stubborn teen but a hand on his wrist stops him. He turns to see that it is Mrs Hudson who is holding his wrist.

"Do you know what _really_ happened?" Mrs Hudson asks.

He can see that Mrs Hudson understands what truly happened with Sherlock. Why she is asking him what happened, he might never know.

He looks down in guilt. ' _Yes, and everyone at school thinks I want to be a part of it._ '

His look might have been the answer she was trying to get because she asks, "You're not one of them, are you?"

"God no," he immediately answers. When Mrs Hudson looks at him for a few more seconds, he adds, "I disapprove of these acts. Yes, I may have been the giving end of this treatment but that is with legitimate and rational cause. But not like this."

Mrs Hudson finally sighs in relief. "Good," she says. "It's really good that someone is finally trying to help him. I shouldn't be the only one. He gets lonely all the time."

He hums in reply. ' _Ouch. Sherlock must have one heck of a life._ '

"Right... Right..." 

He nods at her as they both go upstairs, only to see Sherlock sitting on one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Sherlock's eyes are closed and he seems to be holding himself tightly. He sees Sherlock give out a shaky breath.

He hears Mrs Hudson sigh sadly. "I'll make you a cuppa, dears," she tells them. She looks at him, "You treat his wounds."

"DAMN HIS WOUNDS!" he yells. Both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock flinch violently at the sudden outburst. "Sorry. I am sorry. It's just..." he stops himself from explaining further.

' _Damn your wounds, Sherlock Holmes. You don't deserve them._ '

"Medical kit, Mrs Hudson?" he asks and she nods in reply. He then walks towards Sherlock and grabs a nearby chair and places it in front of Sherlock. "Let me examine those bruises or wounds or whatever you have there right now." He sits down. "Take that shirt off."

"But we just met," Sherlock teases. He gives Sherlock a look that would probably and hopefully tell Sherlock that he doesn't want a joke at the moment.

Sighing, Sherlock takes his shirt off. ' _Bloody fuck!_ ' He is horrified with the amount of bruises and cuts on Sherlock's body. ' _God, what the hell did they do to you?!??!_ '

"Two of them were wearing Football Boots," Sherlock answers the question in his head.

He gives a long breath and inspects Sherlock's wounds and bruises. ' _Not deep cuts, fortunately. That's good. Jesus, this is horrible. Anyway, bruises will form. Need ice. Hmm... God these cuts..._ ' Mrs Hudson comes back with the medical kit - along with an ice pack and some other things that aren't actually needed. ' _Mrs Hudson is such a saint! Thank goodness for that!_ '

"I'll bring your cuppa," she says as he starts helping Sherlock with his wounds.

"God, what did they do before I came?" he asks Sherlock as he finishes bandaging up his wounds. Sherlock merely shrugs in answer. "Fine. You won't tell me, I'll respect that, though I can tell you that you are wrong for doing so." 

Sherlock looks at him as if he is an alien from another universe. Sherlock then starts nodding at nothing, as if agreeing to something he said in his head. Standing up, he places the chair back to the desk and he sits down on the armchair that is facing Sherlock's. Mrs Hudson comes back with tea and biscuits and pours tea for both of them.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"You're quite the professional when you were tending his wounds," she comments, smiling brightly at him.

"John aspires to be a doctor even though he is an adrenaline junkie." He is a bit satisfied that Sherlock is talking in his normal speed once more. "Although I wouldn't know how the two would connect. He does like to help but he is as addicted to the thrill as his sister and father are addicted to alco-"

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson scolds. He sees Sherlock's head snap up to Mrs Hudson as if Sherlock just now noticed her presence in the room as well as his. "Sorry about that John," Mrs Hudson tells him.

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson," he smiles and she looks at him in surprise but then smiles warmly at him. "I should get going. It's getting late," he says, looking at his watch.

"It's really nice to meet you, John."

"You, too, Mrs Hudson." He smiles, standing up. He points a finger at Sherlock. "And you, don't wet the bandages." Sherlock nods but he can see the ghost of a smile on his face.

He leaves 221B, feeling guilty for Sherlock's state, and feeling like he wants to murder Sherlock's attackers.


	6. Little Something

He marches through the crowd, uncaring and ignoring the stares directed at him. He pushes - gently enough to be considered polite but hard enough to get attention - everyone in his way as he goes to his destination.

He didn't had a good sleep last night, at all. He kept having images in his head of an immobile Sherlock. A pale corpse in the middle of the road. He may not completely know the genius but he does not want to see someone die because of a school beating. He saw it once, he's not going to see it again.

* * *

Everyone whispers and gossips about the School Freak and the Rugby Team Captain. They all saw that Science Freak Genius. Bruises and cuts everywhere. Since the rumour of John's beating was never corrected, everyone in school decided to stay away from John Watson as much as possible to cool him off.

So when they see John Watson marching in the corridor, with that look of absolute murder on his face, they part almost immediately, staying away from him in a concealed panic. Goodness knows who John Watson will beat up this time.

* * *

He feels like everyone is looking at him but he does not care at all. He just wants to give a certain someone a certain something. His mind flashes back from the events yesterday. That calm but alert look on Sherlock's face. The little panic and small amount of fear behind those brilliant but lost eyes when he got angry. He shakes his head to remove the thought. He keeps coming back to those recurring thoughts in his head until he bumps into someone... then he comes back to reality.

He hears some mutters of "Oh shit"s and "Oh god"s and "Oh no"s around him. He looks up to stare at Sherlock who is looking back at him, the bruises finally forming on his face. Sherlock seems to have a stiff posture. Not good.

Silence washes over the whole place. Everyone is looking at both of them. He wonders what people are all thinking and why they would be looking at both him and Sherlock. What are they preparing themselves for?

"I see your bruises are healing," he tells Sherlock. 

He actually heard some people's breaths hitch near them. ' _God, what are they all thinking?_ '

"I had a good doctor," Sherlock replies with a smile and he smiles back.

"Of course, you did," he answers, rolling his eyes. Knowing his level of brilliance in Medicine, fuck yeah he's a good doctor. "I wouldn't be too surprised."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and chuckles. "Yes..." he says as an afterthought. 

"I am pleased to see that the bruises did not multiply," he tells Sherlock, patting him on the back.

"Yet," Sherlock whispers to him.

"Don't think like that, you hear me?" he scolds Sherlock. "Now, I have to go now, Sherlock. Good to see you."

He pats Sherlock on the shoulder and carries on walking towards his next class. He turns around once to look at Sherlock. He is quite surprised that everyone is looking at him like he just grew another head at the back of his neck.

* * *

' _Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you._ '

A mild sentence. It's not even a complete sentence but that doesn't matter for him. Four words. Four syllables. That's all there is... and yet they manage to make such an idiotic impact on Sherlock's mind. He shakes his head in disbelief. No. John just probably says that to everyone....

...and yet he isn't like everyone now, is he?

He's Sherlock "Freak" Holmes. He will never be like everyone... and that is both a good thing and a bad thing. It is good for him since it makes him unique. It makes him stand out from the others. He is not as stupid as everyone else he meets. It is a bad thing since his difference is just  _too_ different, and he is having a hard time to be a part of something... to have someone. He's an alien.

Who cares anyway? It's not that important. It's just a title.

Idiots like titles.

' _Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you._ '

He just wants to get rid of that four-word phrase from his mind. It's just a phrase. They are just words. Indeed, he does believe that words are like swords - they are made of steel and they are magnificent but they can also be weapons. No. That four-word phrase is nothing special... and yet...  _there is_.

None has ever told him that before. No one just simply says something like that to him. It's always just business or abuse. Nothing simple. Nothing normal. Nothing special. Yet someone as John Watson passes through his boring life and presses a trigger. How can a person be such an interesting impact such as this on someone like him?

No. He denies it completely. He's thinking too much of himself. He doesn't care about John Watson. He's just as average as- actually, John is an intellectual... but no, John is still  _normal_.

...and yet he helped him from Moran yesterday.

No. No. John Watson is just basically a vigilante in and out of school. Attacking and beating up bullies. He cringes at the word. He doesn't have bullies. No. Bullies are people who prey on people who are lonely, different, sad, disgusting, and pathetic.

' _Is that not what you are?_ ' a little voice creeps at the back of his head.

' _Shut up you ludicrous voice. I do not need your foolish lies,_ ' he thinks.

' _And yet you still let me talk to you._ '

He mentally slaps himself as he slaps himself in reality. He hits one of the bruises on his face. It stings but he's had worse. The thought depresses him. No. No. He doesn't care and he doesn't mind. Why should he waste his time caring anyway?

He whispers. "Good to see you, too," and yet no one hears him.

* * *

"Oi, John!" Greg runs to him from the school to the benches at the back garden.

"Hey, mate!"

"What the hell happened to Sherlock's bloody face? Didn't I tell you not to do anything stupid?!?! Let alone violent?!" Greg scolds at him.

"Greg! How many times do I have to bloody tell you that I don't want to beat up Sherlock?! Why the hell do you keep blaming this on me, Greg Lestrade? I feel like you're implying something."

"I'm just detecting what could have happened here." Greg raises his hands in defence. "Not accusing you!"

"But why do I feel like that's exactly what you're doing? Hmm?!"

"Because it's the most logical thing here."

"Well, it's stupid! Logical but wrong! There is such a thing."

"Okay! Okay! Alright! I'm sorry!"

"See? Was that so hard?" He shrugs normally as he continues his book.

"You know..." Greg starts and he secretly listens but his eyes stay on the book. "Sometimes I forget that you're such a swot." He looks up from the book with an offended look and Greg shrugs. "Oh come on, don't deny it. You basically read every single medical book your mum owns... and don't tell me you keep trying to make good grades. As far as I know, we don't have Medicine classes. God, you're such a swot and _everyone_ forgets about that part of you."

"Well, people like my good looks and my _brilliant_ arse."

Greg rubs his face with his palm and sighs exasperatedly. "You're so confident with yourself that it's getting a tad bit too annoying."

"I'm ace, you're not," he replies.

"Shut up, swot."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Oi!"

"What? You're a dog and you're a female!"

"I am one hundred percent male that I eat rocks for cereals without any milk!"

He mocks a fake-gasp at Greg and talks in a five-year old voice. "Wow, mister, you're so strong!"

"Damn you, John." and they both laugh.

* * *

After being in detention for goodness knows what it is, he walks around the school. Since this morning, people had been whispering around him - both in amusement and satisfaction. They laugh at him. They point at him. They are disgusted by him. They snigger at him as they see his poor state. Weak and bruised all over. Beaten up. He cringes at the term.

He goes around the school, taking the surrounding around him, but mostly, he just wants to find John Watson. He plans to ask him why he helped him. Why would he try to ruin his reputation to help someone like him?

No.

Scratch that. Why would John bother to talk to him? Is there some ulterior motive? Hmm, maybe he would try to talk to him and observe John's behaviour and probably find out his - probably sick - intentions.

Now that he thinks about it, John got him fooled. He is fascinated and impressed with how good John pretends to be a nice enough person around him... because it would be completely ridiculous for someone like John Watson to be nice to someone like Sherlock Freak Holmes, right? Why would John ruin himself to talk to him? Clearly, there is a bigger picture around this and he is determined to find out exactly what.

As he walks around the corner of the school, he immediately halts at the sight of the Rugby Players. They have their backs facing him but he immediately steps towards the edge of the wall to hide.

They are probably having a meeting which means John would obviously be there, being the Captain and all. It would be better if he would not look as suspicious as he is right now and lean back casually against the wall. He takes out a cigarette.

As he is waiting and would rather not be out of mind in case of being seen by any of the players, he listens to whatever boring things Rugby Players talk about, maybe he can use the knowledge as some ice breaker between him and John. Something to change topics with and use it to manipulate John when he finds out John's negative intentions.

That's when he hears John's voice.

"-anymore. Are we clear?" Commanding, firm, perfect for a soldier.

He has never heard this kind of silence before. You could hear an ant walking. The wind blows and you can trace fear in the air.

"I said. Are. we. clear?" John asks once more. ' _Soldier indeed,_ ' he thinks.

He hears quiet hums of agreement.

"Speak up!" John roars. He could make out from the sound along with it that John had stomped his foot for emphasis.

"Yes!" The others say loudly.

"Right. I don't want today's events to happen again, you hear me? And if you even dare to try and test me, I will take my fists out and get even with you all harder than I have ever done before. I will make sure to hit the weakest spot of your anatomy. Who knows? I might even do the curtesy of calling the ambulance for you. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" He can hear the perfect hum of satisfaction from John.

"Get out of my sight," hisses John Watson... soldier... doctor... John Watson, army doctor.

He hears footsteps and some of the other players walk by the corner and sees him. Some doesn't even notice him. He sees some have sprains on their arms, and some are limping. Some who catch his eye would give him the dirtiest look anyone could give him in human history. 

He sees Moran walking and is holding up his head since he has a bloody noise and seems to have a cut on his cheek. Moran walks past him and his eyes follow Moran who is a few metres away from him now.

A guy with black hair, wearing the school uniform too neatly, seems to have been waiting for Moran and is now walking towards the Rugby Player. They both talk to each other rather quietly. The black-haired teen looking at him from time to time.

Moran kicks on the wall in anger and the teen quietly tells something to Moran before they both look at him, causing him to flinch, and leave.

John is the last to go around the corner and sees him. He notices that John would have some bruises on his face later on. Clearly, he has been through something. Probably a fight.

"Hey, Sherlock!" John greets him.

' _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._ ' 

Sherlock shakes his head to remove the voice in his head. "Watson," he greets back. He offers his hand and John, confused, hesitantly shakes it.

John frowns. "Didn't know you smoke," he says, frowning even deeper after saying the last word. "Not good for the lungs, you know?"

He shrugs in reply. "It would also seem that you had had a meeting with your team members."

"What? Oh! Er, yeah! Yeah, we did. Moran wasn't too happy," John chuckles.

"I bet," he replies. "What had transpired here moments before? A fight while practicing? Severe game playing?" He raises his brow as he stubs out his cigarette.

"A little something like that," John replies mysteriously.

He narrows his eyes at him to intimidate the other teen but John simply stares back. It's clear to him that John was the one who had inflicted the cuts, bruises, and bloody noses on the other team members. He's knuckles are bruised and there is blood on some part of his clothes though John doesn't seem to have any bleeding wounds. He lets go of the topic for now.

"Good punch," he tells John.

"Yes, must have been. Moran's all bloodied up."

"Well, _you'd_ know," he tells him. John gives him a look, still trying to pretend he knows nothing from his expression. "You better treat your knuckles. I don't suppose you'll get caught but let's avoid suspension," he tells him calmly. John clears his throat and looks around the place nervously, making sure no one could hear them. "Are you all right?" he suddenly says.

"Yes, of course, I'm all right," John insists, practically rolling his eyes at the process.

"Well, you _have_ just beaten up a fellow student."

"Yes, I-" John stops. He looks at John closely and the latter stares back at him with a look that practically says, ' _You little shit._ ' "That's true, innit?" John admits, smiling, but he remains to look at him closely to make sure John's  _really_ alright. "But he isn't a very nice student."

Reassured that John is actually okay, he nods in agreement.

"No. No, he isn't really, is he?" he agrees.

"And frankly a bloody awful player."

He chuckles and adds, "That's true. He is an awful player." He leads them both to start walking and John follows beside him. "You should have seen the kick he did to that wall."

As John giggles, he smiles and starts giggling himself.

' _Maybe I miscalculated about John Watson._ '


	7. Doors, Faces

John has defended and befriended him in a matter of two days of meeting him. He has never met someone like John before. He's extremely loyal, he can safely say that. Even if he is an odd sort of person, John still sees him as a normal human being. Well, he hopes that John thinks he is human. Everyone in school says that John doesn't deserve to be stuck with someone like him and that he shouldn't be friends with him because of his... freakishness.

He observes John. Compared to him, John is sociable, but if you look at John in another point-of-view, he isn't that much of a social butterfly. He is feared and admired but he doesn't have much friends either. He seems to get along with ' _Gavin? Geoff? Graham?_ ' Lestrade the most. Others are either just colleagues or other players or classmates. But friends? He isn't close to anyone much. John doesn't make friends easily apparently.

The two of them have been in lots of trouble but they seem to get away with it most of the time. He makes excuses and the two are often let go without so much as a detention. They've broken into the Headmaster's office. They've been chased by some kids in an alley. They've been almost kidnapped by a mad cabbie. Basically, both of their lives turned around on the day they met, and they couldn't have it any other way.

* * *

He is glad. John doesn't mind when he rants. He doesn't mind when he experiences his black moods either. In a way, John actually lessened his black moods - of which he is grateful for... but sometimes he can feel John looking at him or sensing something from him that he can't and won't say anything about... until...

"Sherlock, where did this come from?" John asks him, pointing at his cheek.

"What?" He raises his hand and puts it on his cheek, rubbing something. "What is it?"

"It's a bruise, Sherlock."

He raises his head in realisation and hums. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed... Sherlock, where the hell did that come from? Because I made sure that the other Rugby Players wouldn't harm you in anyway."

"I bumped it when I fell out of bed," he answers.

"You fell out of bed?"

"Yes, my feet were tangled with the sheets and I fell when I tried to stand up. Hit my face on the floor hard."

"You do know that I am studying to be a doctor in the future, right? And that I'm studying in advanced? And that my mother is a doctor as well?"

"Yeah... So...?"

" _So_... That means that I know how much force will be needed to get a bruise that BAD!" John doesn't notice him flinch when he yelled the last word.

"It was worth a try."

"Why won't you just tell me the truth?"

"Because it's more embarrassing than you think."

John asks quietly. "Why? What happened?"

He sighs. "There is an abandoned house somewhere in this quiet area." John nods. "The door to enter the said house is always hard to open and obviously, I pull it with much force... One faithful day, as I go through my routine of jumping up a fence and walking towards the house, remembering to skip that one step because the wooden step is fairly weak, I pulled the door... Apparently, the door is not attached to the doorway anymore and I accidentally hit my face with too much force. Resulting with this..." He gestures to his face.

John laughs hard and he laughs with him. "And here I thought that Moran had got a hold of you."

"Well, who would have thought that a door could be a great attacker these days?"

"That's one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard in my entire life."

"And you dance passionately while listening with your earphones!"

The two laugh again and he can't help but feel glad to finally have a friend, at last...

* * *

John's been forcing him to eat again. He hasn't eaten for two days and John is getting angry at him. "Sherlock, I have read a lot about nutrition and health, and so listen to me when I say that you. need. to. eat!"

"It is not needed for the time being. Besides, a man named Angelo - colleague of mine - was just suspected of murder. I keep trying to tell the police that he wasn't even in the country at the time of the murder. They're not _listening_!" He says, frustrated beyond measure.

"Of course, they won't listen, Sherlock." He looks at John.

"Why not?"

"Because they're adults and they think a teenager's opinion is not needed nor important, even if it is right. And that's their biggest mistake: Not listening."

"And who told you that wisdom?"

"My mother."

"Why would your mother say something like that?"

"Because she wants me to see what is right in front of me. She doesn't believe in adults letting the youth think that society is better than what it is."

"Well, she does have a point. Fine. I'll just call someone later to help me talk with the police."

"Who are you going to call?"

"The most dangerous man you will ever meet."

John gives him a horrified look. "And you're going to call him?!"

"It's fine..." ' _He's just my brother._ '

"Sherlock, I won't allow this."

"You're not my mother, John." And the two are kept in silence. John eats his lunch while he goes through an advanced book about Chemistry. John's not the only one studying in advanced for university.

"What's your family like?" John asks suddenly.

He looks up from his book. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, 'What's your family like?'."

"Why ask?"

"Because you know so much about my family. I figured that I should know just as much about yours."

"I don't see how this-"

"Fine! Fine! You won't tell me! Fine!" John huffs in annoyance.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. I have a mother, a father, and a brother. There, happy?"

"A brother? Wicked..." Silence. "Is that all?"

"What _else_ do you want to know?" he asks, confused and frustrated. ' _What is the point in asking about my_ dear  _family_ _?_ '

"I don't know... Are they fine? What do they usually do? Just tell me about them..."

"Why?"

"Well, it's unfair that you know almost everything there is to know about my family - everything happening, what they're doing, or whatever. I think I should have the right to know about yours. And no, I'm not as observant as you so I can't figure it out just by looking at you."

He sighs. "Mother and father are both often at work although sometimes they'll be at home though that is often rare. They don't actually have working hours. They're just... Honestly, I don't exactly know what their jobs are..." He sees John grow confused. "I never bothered to ask." He shrugs. "My brother is working as the shadow of the government. He actually made his own job. Working as a spy, having so many jobs of 'national importance' and requires the 'highest form of discretion'." He rolls his eyes.

John laughs and he looks at John closely. "Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

"There. I talked about my family. May I not talk anymore?" he asks, annoyed. John shrugs, finishing his meal.

* * *

After school, he walks alone to his house. Ever since meeting John Watson, school hasn't been hell at all. He's grateful. ' _Sherlock Holmes? Grateful?_ ' He chuckles. Two more blocks to his house and he thinks about John Watson - the only person who willingly approached him and became kind to him, even knowing how much of an awful obnoxious arsehole he is. But come to think of it, John isn't normal himself. He can just adjust quickly to ordinary people but if you keep him alone long enough, he'd be extremely different. 

He chuckles... John Watson, army doctor.

He reaches his house. Holmes Manor. He sighs. He is aware that he has the biggest and grandest house in the block and he doesn't even want to think about it. No way is he going to let John Watson reach his house. The house stares at him intimidatingly and he frowns. This is his house for Christ's sake. ' _Certainly isn't your home now, is it?_ ' He removes the thought immediately.

' _Now then. Better prepare for another "door to my face"._ ' He thinks miserably as he opens the door.


	8. There's More

He cannot help but feel even more curious and suspicious about Sherlock. Even so, he also can't help but think that Sherlock is both a dark mysterious person who would help the people in need from behind the shadows of a dark hero, and a stupid idiot. Sherlock is the kind of person who would help people when they consult him with their problems -  _good_ problems. Alright, he may not be as sympathetic as a normal human being, but he knows Sherlock is as addicted to saving people as to being addicted to the adrenaline and the adventure of whatever problem he is trying to solve.

It's one reason why he is determined to protect Sherlock from those arseholes at all costs. If Sherlock is a good person - one of the best people that he knows - why the hell would others treat him like dirt? No, they treat Sherlock much lower than dirt. That's incredibly unfair and just plain...  _wrong_ and  _disgusting_. Thankfully, he managed to threaten his teammates as much as he can. What he did to Moran was a warning and he doesn't want to show how much of a machine he can be. He is impressed that Moran and his other weird dark-haired friend had been at a good distance away from them this long...

But how does Sherlock still keep getting bruises?

"Sherlock, we _really_ have to talk about this," he tells him.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asks as if bored.

The two of them had been walking around the abandoned park near the school an hour before the first lesson starts. There's no one around here.

"These bruises!" he exclaims. "There's more of them!" 

"I wouldn't know." Sherlock shrugs. "I can't see them."

"But you must have _felt_ how it happened!"

"Probably in my sleep." Sherlock shrugs once more, dismissing the subject casually.

He pinches his nose in frustration. "Oh really? Wow! Brilliant! You get bruises in your sleep! That is a good deduction, Sherlock. The best! How smart of you! Brilliant!"

"Thank you."

"That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"I know."

He grits his teeth. "Did you get into another fight?"

"John, you sound like a mother."

"I practically _am_ your mother, you bloody prick!" he shouts, frustrated and Sherlock gives him a look. "NO! No. You are not giving me _the_ look. I am the one with the rational mind here right now... Fine! _Fine_. You know what? Fine. Have it your way. I won't ask."

"Good. Your endless chatter annoys me." Sherlock simply shrugs and carries on walking.

"Endless cha- I'll show you what endless chatter is you pompous prick!" He huffs and sees that they're nearing a bench. "I want to sit down."

Just as Sherlock scoffs and moves, he grabs Sherlock's arm and pulls him to sit beside him forcefully. "John!" Sherlock complains.

"No. _No,_ you dickhead. We are going to _talk_. You're getting even more impossible to talk to nowadays... and that's saying something."

"I was never aware that I've been _more_ impossible to talk to."

"God! You're worse than a bloody brick wall!" Sherlock stares at him and he calms himself down. "Look... why won't you just _tell_ me what's going on and who's doing this to you? Why are you protecting them? Is it someone close to either or both of us? Someone we know?"

"It's... none of your business," Sherlock snaps and he looks at him in surprise.

He did not expect that at all. Sherlock Holmes just bloody told him that something is not his business which would mean that this is very  _very_ wrong. Everything is always his business when it concerns Sherlock. He's hiding something. Who is he hiding? Why is he even bothering to hide their identities?

"Shut up," Sherlock suddenly snaps, bringing him back to reality.

"I'm not saying anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

' _Now that's the Sherlock I know._ '

* * *

John's starting to get suspicious of him, he knows it. He can fee it. He doesn't want to tell John anything because it doesn't really  matter, does it? Alright, he admits that to John, it may matter but that would be because John has a strong moral principle... If he tells him or says anything that implies whatever situation he is in, John will get all  _military_ and  _angry_... He doesn't really need John's help anyway. He can handle it. Unfortunately,  _they_ have been more careless when it comes to hiding everything and they were the ones who insist on keeping up appearances.

If only there are other ways to- he will just have to negotiate things. John has been a good friend. 

' _Friend... Friend... Friend. What a foreign word for me to use to indicate such an ordinary person. No. That's wrong. John is anything_ but _ordinary. He has a part of him that differentiates him from the others. It's probably why his other friends hate him. I should write a blog about suppressed hatred in close proximity! I'd base it entirely on his other friends. Hmm._ Other _friends. Did I just use that to describe John's friends? It's as if I am claiming to be his friend as well._ '

He shakes his head. Hatred. He remembers being looked at with this emotion in their eyes. He doesn't recall John ever looking at him like that. It gives him hope that he can have a friend. He's an obnoxious arsehole. He's hopeless. But then there's John and maybe... Just maybe... He can-

"Where have you been?" he hears someone yell from the sitting room.

' _Oh, I'm in the house already? I didn't notice._ '

"School," he replies loudly, hanging his coat on the coatrack.

"At this late in the hour?" he hears him. 

He checks his watch and cringes. It's ten o'clock in the evening already. He must have drifted off when he was hanging out and about at Montague Street. ' _Welp._ '

"Come here."

He walks in the sitting room and finds him sitting on his usual armchair.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where have you been? And I want a _proper_ answer this time."

"I was in Montague Street, sir."

"And what on Earth were you doing there?" His voice is stern, and downright angry. He inwardly winces at the tone of his voice.

"Thinking," he whispers.

_**THWACK!** _

And the first slap hits his face. ' _Left hand. Ring on._ '

"What did I tell you about  _dozing off_?" he asks, standing up and towering over him.

"That it's a good rest?" he challenges sarcastically.

_**THWACK!** _

"I do not desire to be spoken to with that foul mouth of yours, William. Now, tell me. What were you  _really_ doing?"

"I already said-"

_**THWACK!** _

"Stop lying to me, you useless piece of dirt."

"I'm not-"

_**THWACK!** _

"Do you want me to continue?"

"No."

_**THWACK!** _

"Where are your manners?!"

"Sorry, sir."

_**THWACK!** _

"What were you doing in Montague Street?!"

"NOTHING! I SAID 'NOTHING'!" he yells at his father.

' _Big mistake._ '

His father, Siger, steps forward towards him but he keeps his ground. He tries not to be seen how intimidated he is by his own father. He can handle him... hopefully.

' _Little squint in the eyes - means either humour, happiness, or anger. Clearly means the latter. Anger at me - for being late? yelling? lacking manners? No. False. Anger for breathing. Stance - getting ready. Fists - clenching and unclenching. Posture - leaning over, cornering me. Fist - moving upwards, about to hit me. DODGE!_ '

He dodges the first punch but his father is far too smart to be tricked. He didn't notice his father's other hand getting ready for the dodge and so hits him on the chest. Sherlock falls on the floor, coughing, the wind punched out of him.

"You believe that you can outsmart me?" He leans over him. "You forget, offspring: I am far more intelligent than you will ever be."

Siger kicks him once on the ribs and he closes his eyes as he absorbs the pain. He doesn't dare make a sound. A sound would not be approved... It would prove that he is in pain and is weak... and he does not want to give his father the satisfaction of being right about him.

"I would have been a better man if you never turned out the way you are. You could have been like your brother. But no, you didn't want to, did you? You decided to be the freak of nature no one would want. Pathetic." Siger Holmes tuts. "A Holmes - a pathetic one, not the kind I expected you to be. Be grateful that I have not disowned you despite the obvious reasons why we should have had. It is a shame that people know about your existence or else you would have been living on the streets for quite a while now. So, I have to punish you instead." He sighs. "Grow a brain, William. You will never catch up to us." Siger scolds him and he mentally rolls his eyes. "Get yourself out of here. I don't want to lower my own intelligence because of your presence. Don't talk. Just leave."

' _Can I move? Ugh, it's difficult but I think I can manage._ '

"NOW!" Siger yells and he jumps up, ignoring the pain in his body.

He runs to his room. ' _Dizzy. Endless spinning. Stop. Shut up and deal with this._ ' He grabs a gel pack from his mini-refrigerator which Mycroft got him last year. He looks at his face in the mirror. ' _New cut from father's ring, no doubt. John would ask me about it again._ '

He removes his shirt and sees the new bruises that will form in a few more moments. The new bruises are almost clashing with the other healing bruises, cuts, and scrapes. He looks like a map. No. He _is_ a map. A map of all his 'misbehaving acts'. A map of all his failure. A map of his life... his childhood. His family should just call it for what it really is: A map of why he will never belong to anyone.

Good thing Mycroft isn't in the manor much anymore. He is often out in his office. Most likely, Mycroft is stalking him whilst in his office whenever he comes out of the manor. He already got a talk with him about John, reminding him of Redbeard.

Bloody git.

Redbeard is his first friend, he admits. John is his first  _human_ friend... and he will always owe them a lot.

He will just have to do his very best and keep John from his family.


	9. What's Wrong?

' _This is_ really  _getting out of hand now,_ ' he thinks worryingly as Sherlock walks, no, limps towards him with a brand new cut on his face. ' _What the hell has been happening? How does this even happen? I made sure no one would try to do anything to him already._ '

"John," Sherlock greets him casually as usual, leaning on the wall in a bored manner, placing his hands in his pockets. John secretly hates the fact that Sherlock can look like a mysterious badass without any effort anytime.

"Sherlock," he greets back, standing up from one of the school benches. He moves to stand in front of Sherlock whose eyes are closed. "Hmm, let me guess: a door to your face again?"

Sherlock opens his eyes and raises his brow, giving him another one of his calculated looks. He hates it when Sherlock does that. It makes him feel naked and judged, in a way. 

"No, actually," Sherlock replies. 

"Oh, really? What happened?" he asks, just as casually as not to let Sherlock know how eager he is to know what the fuck happened. He even dares to raise a brow to show only slight curiosity to let Sherlock know that he is a bit interested. ' _Is he going to tell me the truth this time?_ ' he thinks. ' _Or at least an understatement of what really happened to him?_ '

"I fell from my bed and a loose floorboard with a nail had cut my face - quite badly, I'm afraid. I was able to fix the worst of it."

"I don't believe you."

"Then that is not my problem."

"Damn it, how can I believe that there is a loose floorboard in your room? Houses with wooden floors are not quite famous nowadays, if you don't mind me asking," he snaps.

"Because I wasn't at my house yesterday. Well, I was partly in my house," Sherlock says tilting his head from left to right, flaunting his hands which is probably his small habit.

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense!"

"I was in my old treehouse," Sherlock answers, shrugging. "It's a bit far away from my actual residence but I had to go through my house to get to the treehouse."

"You have a treehouse?"

"Yes. It's old, of course, and I haven't been there for months."

"Months? Not years?"

"It's a good place. Quiet, no people, calm. You can hear the movements of the leaves as it flows with the wind. The chirping of the birds in the morning. A slight shine from the sun as most of its rays are hindered by the trees. Though having a treehouse is childish, I still haunt its crumbling walls."

He watches as Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs in thought. He sounds as if he craves the peacefulness he experiences in that treehouse of his. What he really noticed is that the way he said it sounds... beautiful.

"I never realised how much of a poet you truly are."

Sherlock snorts. "A poet? I've never been called as such before. If you crave dramatics from a poet, you should go meet my brother. He's drama in all forms and in every meaning of the word."

"A poet, yes. But I'm afraid I still don't believe that you got that cut from a treehouse. There is this prodding voice in my head that is making me see reason. Why don't I believe you?" he asks the last part mostly to himself.

"How should I know?" Sherlock asks, leaning on the wall once more and sighing, closing his eyes in a huff. "I'm not a mind-reader."

"Sherlock, just... Tell me. What's wrong?" he asks.

"What kind of a question is that?" Sherlock laughs. "There are lots of wrong things: the government system; the education system; the relationships between countries; the powerful suppressing the unfortunate; idiots roaming the Earth; you asking me pointless questions."

" _Sherlock_ , please."

" _John_ , your unnecessary begging won't get you anywhere."

"Sherlock, I _beg_ of you," he pleads, not caring how desperate he's sounding. If Sherlock's getting hurt, he would want to do something about it, in any way he can. "Tell me what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"I'm not saying that there's something wrong with you. I'm asking what's wrong with how you are being treated. Who is doing this to you? What's _wrong_?"

"Watson, if you don't stop asking me pestering questions, my patience will dry out."

' _Oh, so I'm Watson now? Something is definitely bothering him to reduce to my name. The comment with his patience drying out, is that a threat? Has he reduced to desperation that he is starting to threat me?_ '

"Why won't you just tell me?" he asks frustratingly.

"Because there is _nothing_ to tell!" Sherlock snaps. "Unlike you, I am fine. If you want the truth: I am simply uncoordinated unlike your father and sister," Sherlock spits. "I do not need your endless questions. There is no need for me to sit and talk about _emotions_ because I simply don't have them. No, that's wrong. You are igniting an emotion from me, John Watson. That would be irritation and a slight amount of anger. Do you seriously want to set those emotions alight? There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?" 

Sherlock has already left leaning the wall. He didn't realise that they are practically in the middle of the corridor and Sherlock is walking towards him, leaning down. He steps back until he reaches the wall himself.

"Do you want me to prove it? No? Of course not. You will probably lose control over your anger yourself because you won't keep up. Is that how your life works? How terrible of a way of living. Adding up to your drunk sister and father, and your mostly absent mother. Clearly she has been too busy and now _you_ have to handle the drunks, am I right? Oh what a night you must have had! You even got that girl's - Mary's - number. Are you expecting to shag her, Watson? Because that's all you, ordinary people, do, right? Brainless endless questions, relationships, sleep with her, sleep with him, eat, sleep, be normal, boring, dull. I am not like that - fortunately. There is nothing wrong with me and since you have obviously observed that I can still deduce then that would  _obviously_ mean that I am not defective. I am functioning well and therefore you should just  _leave. me. alone._ "

"That's it," he replies, getting away from Sherlock's threatening gaze and starts walking away, holding on to the straps of his rucksack like a lifeline, and his head falling.

"And where are you going?" Sherlock snaps at him and he pauses on his place.

He raises his head a moment but doesn't turn around to face Sherlock who, he himself observed, has not moved away from where he was standing moments before.

"Leaving," he replies coldly.

"Why?" Sherlock asks.

"I need some air."

"You already have some air."

He turns on the spot and spits, "Air that doesn't have _you_ contaminating it."

That's it. To him, Sherlock has crossed the line. He hates that Sherlock is right, that he is losing his own control to himself. He is losing his anger. He has lost to Sherlock which he has tried not to do. His anger is dangerous because there is no telling on what he is capable of doing. It is a problem, is it not? To have an exasperated friend know all of your secrets, your weaknesses, your problems, while you know almost nothing about that said friend.

"What do you mean by ' _contaminate_ '," Sherlock spits. "I don't have a virus!"

"No, you don't," he hisses. "You _are_ the virus,  _Holmes_ , one I would want to avoid."

"You're going to avoid me? You can't handle a few words?" Sherlock challenges him. "Is that why you're going to avoid me? Can't handle me being your friend? Is that it?"

"No. I am going to avoid you because you won't talk."

"Why would you want me to talk?"

He raises his head and looks at Sherlock straight in the eye. "You've had your words and now it's my turn... You know what? I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and tell me about what is bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me?" Sherlock opens his mouth but John cuts me off. "You probably don't. Of course not. All you care about is yourself. Well, then, that's good, right? Is that good? You want that from the beginning, don't you? Is that why you isolate yourself? You were never a lonely soul that became friends with a fellow lonely soul, were you? I can't believe how foolish I am to believe a heartless man like you would care about me. Should I leave you with your heartless soul now? I have been offering you my friendship, my trust, and my care but you won't give me yours.

"Is that true friendship? When one benefits from the effort of the other and doesn't do anything else? No. You had insulted me in many ways and you have been throwing away good things in my life. Even simple things like having girlfriends - you made them leave, screaming away when you talk to them. Simple things like having time with my family - you laugh at my family's misfortunes of being addicted to _something_ but we're happy. It's none of your business if they drink! I had felt only humiliation when you snap at me when you're in one of your dark moods - which is often. Maybe people were right. I should have left you alone from the start and never tried to be friends with you.

"Maybe people were right about how cruel you are, how heartless you are, how selfish you could be. Are they right? About you being this freak of nature? I can't believe how much you deceive me, now that I think about it... because I trust you enough to endanger my life but you don't trust me enough to talk to me, nor at least regard me enough? Am I just a side-kick to you as you play hero? I guess you trust your massive intellect more than me. I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that, right? I should have expected this from the beginning. Well, I suppose this is it. I am severing ties from you, Sherlock. Goodbye."

He turns around and finally walks away. He doesn't hear anything behind him. He must have shut him up. He doesn't even remember half of what he said. It all just came out of his mouth but he knows that he has said enough. He is too furious. Too angry. Too disappointed. Too hurt.

As he walks, he dares look back when he is far enough. He can see a student at the end of the corridor, in all black - Sherlock. The unmoving coat. Frozen in reality. Standing exactly where he left him. He looks still, unmoving. He could mistake him for a statue. Shaking his head, he turns back around and keeps walking towards his next class. 

He doesn't see Sherlock walk the opposite direction and leave the school.

* * *

He screwed up. He knows he did. John is gone. ' _I am severing ties from you, Sherlock,_ ' the words in replay in his head. What the fuck has he done? ' _I had felt only humiliation when you snap at me when you're in one of your dark moods - which is often._ ' Is he really that much of a terrible person? What has he done?

Fuck, what has he done?

Going along the familiar streets of Montague Street. One of the flats in the said street seems to be a normal flat but inside is a different matter entirely. He's going back to his wife... He's going back to cocaine again. Well, it is the reason why he became so late last night and why his father... He shouldn't think about such things. 

* * *

Sherlock hasn't called him in two weeks. His phone won't let him. Did Sherlock lose it? Did Sherlock throw it away? Did he changed his number? Was he mugged? Is he hurt? What happened to him?

He finds himself getting distracted over an empty seat where Sherlock was supposed to be. Sherlock should be either sleeping on that empty seat or simply looking at his own notes and not listening to the professor at all.

"John? What's wrong?" Greg asks him when he looked at the empty seat one more time.

"He's been gone for two weeks," he replies.

Greg pats him on the back. "It's no big deal. He always goes off in long holidays like this. It's always a surprise because as I recall, his parents never really tell him and his brother when they leave so it's always a surprise. He'll come back."

"His phone is off."

"Yeah, he says he closes it so he could relax."

"This happened to you before?"

"I know the guy for a long time now. So I know that this isn't unusual. He's always gone like this before you met him."

"I never really noticed before."

"Yeah, you regret that, too, huh?"

"Regret what?"

"That you never made him his friend earlier. I always regretted it. Should have saved him the time from being targeted like before."

He sighs. Greg is completely on point.

* * *

Hit. Hit. Slap. Punch. Kick. Throw. Punch. Slap. Boot. Shoved. Pulled. Slapped. Hands on his collar. Pulled by the neck. Can't breathe. No air.

His mother comes in and thankfully, his father removes his grip.

"What's he done this time?" Violet Holmes asks.

"This," Siger holds up a box to Violet and she gasps in horror. He can't believe that he lost focus and that his father caught him holding the mahogany box as he just opened it, revealing the syringe inside.

Violet nods once to siger. Then it continues.

* * *

Did he say something completely out of line? He can't believe how furious he had been towards Sherlock and lost himself. He doesn't remember anything he said. Just some things. He knows it was about Sherlock not talking and not trusting him and him telling him goodbye. That's the gist of it.  But he doesn't remember the details of what he had said. Did he tell him something so wrong?

No.

It's impossible. Sherlock doesn't feel. Especially anything towards him. He is nothing. Just a stranger. He was never Sherlock's friend. But what if he does feel? Should he tell Sherlock he's sorry?

* * *

He hasn't eaten in three days. Locked in his bedroom once more. It's not really a burden. He is actually grateful that he is locked inside his bedroom. Usually, they make him sleep outside which is much much worse since it gets too cold and too uncomfortable. But if he is in the comfort of his own room, then his punishment is not that bad. He just has to act the perfect suffering son.

If his parents find out that he is comfortable with the arrangement, they will do all they can to make him feel what he deserves - hurt.

Oh look! They gave him dog's food! Finally! He can eat!

* * *

He texts Sherlock.

> _**Look Sherlock. I'm sorry about what I said. JW** _

He texts Sherlock again.

> _**I didn't mean any of what I said! I'm sorry! JW** _

And again.

> _**I was wrong, alright! I don't want to leave! JW** _

And again.

> _**Call me back as soon as you see this text. JW** _

Sherlock never called back.

* * *

He would rather die.

He can't live like this.

What is worth living for when he has no one?

* * *

' _Dear god, where's Sherlock?!?!?!_ ' he thinks every day.

* * *

He runs towards his window and manages to get down after spending an awful amount of time tying things together. He thanks the universe for the invention of bed sheets and the fact that he managed to hide a screwdriver from the basement when he was forced to get trapped in the closet this morning. He runs away from his house with only a rucksack with everything he needs and goes to the alley to find himself some place to sleep.

Hopefully, Bill Wiggins is there. Bill is a loyal part of his Homeless Network and hopefully helps him find a place in his network. He is, as of the moment, homeless. The homeless are good spies for him... and will do anything for food.

' _And at this point, I am one of them instead of the one helping them._ ' Looking at the bridge where some of his recruited networks were living before they met him, he sighs. ' _Anything beats the Holmes manor._ '

* * *

He was walking quietly when the phone in the phonebox rings once more when he passed by it. It's been happening to him since this morning. He assumes that the phonecall which has been following him is for him.

He enters and takes the phone. "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, John Watson?"

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The camera turns. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" He hums and the camera turns as well. "And finally, at the top of the building... to your right." It turns.

"How are you doing this?

"Get into the car, John Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

His jaws drop as he watches a car drive in front of him just as the man on the phone tells him to get inside it. It's as if he is watched. Well, of course he is.

* * *

It's cold. So cold. Oh how he is in need of a house. He can't withdraw either or else he will feel much worse. 

He shoots up.

* * *

He enters a very posh building... and is told to go inside an office. That's when he sees a man in his twenties standing by the fireplace.

"Have a sit, John," the man gestures to the armchair in front of the fireplace in a bored and casual manner.

"You know, I've got a phone... I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me... _on my phone._ "

"Sit down."

"No. I don't want to sit down."

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man laughs. "Oh, yes. The bravery of the will-be soldier. Though bravery is, by far, the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?" The man looks at him. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"It depends."

"I want you to tell me where he is."

"Why? Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has?"

"One."

"You're very loyal."

"I'm just stating the truth."

"Either way, I am the closest thing to an extremely close friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"And you're not?" he asks sassily.

The man sneers at him.

"Sir?" a woman he met in the car whose name is not Anthea interrupts.

"Yes?"

"You're getting late."

"Noted. Thank you," the man says and the woman leaves. "It would seem that I'm getting late."

"Another interrogation then?"

"A family dinner," the man replies and tilts his head. "Tell me his whereabouts. Now."

"Why would I do that?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"Right."

As he starts to walk away when the man tells him, "Stop and sit down."

He turns around, crossing his arms. He sees the man sit down on one of the armchairs, still facing him. He looks at the man. He isn't smug anymore. He isn't sneering. He seems business-like. He  _meant_ business. He moves to stand in front of the armchair but doesn't make a move to sit down.

"Has he ever called you?" the man asks him.

"I want an agreement."

The man leans back on his chair. "An agreement?"

"You tell me who you _really_ are and why you're asking for Sherlock Holmes, and I'll stick with my resilience of saying any information about him."

The man raises a brow but sighs. "He's been missing."

"Who's been missing?"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"I have been on the job to take an eye on him. Cameras on the door to his house, his school. Although he manages to hide from my cameras, he cannot simply vanish out of thin air. I managed to track him down before with his mobile phone but when we traced it, we found it abandoned somewhere on the streets with its batteries dead. We cannot find him and we were hoping that you would know his whereabouts."

"Why do you need to find him?"

"Because I have to."

"Why?"

"Three weeks: no phone calls; no traces; vanished. We need _your_ help."

"Then tell me who you are and tell me why you need _my_ help to find him."

"You know my brother best and you seem to gain his trust and therefore he could have informed you of his whereabouts. So now tell me: Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

His mind is black. ' _So this is the infamous Mycroft._ ' He thought Sherlock had been exaggerating when he said his brother is a stalker and completely follows you everywhere he goes.

He clears his throat. "I don't know."

"You don't... know?"

"I don't know where he is. He hasn't called me back either."

"Would you know exactly _why_ he would leave so suddenly?"

He keeps silent. He knows that he is partially to blame for Sherlock's disappearance. He practically told the teen to fuck off and leave him alone.

He can't think anymore.

Fuck, what's wrong with him?

Where's Sherlock?


	10. A Miscalculation

He looks at the bread on the ground being eaten by a pigeon. He understands it, being pecked at like that, except that for him, he is being eaten alive. It feels like something is biting on every part of his skin, ripping every limb, every muscle, every organ of his anatomy, and the parts being shredded and he can still feel every single one of it.

Guilt.

He, John Watson, is feeling guilt... and he only partly knows why which makes the guilt even greater. He knows that he is most probably or completely the reason why Sherlock has gone missing. He knows it's what he said and he knows how horrible he had been to Sherlock. He knows he said goodbye, and he knows he hit Sherlock with lowly words that he swore to himself that he would never throw at him. He knows he is to blame.

What he doesn't know is why he said them. All of them.

He was angry, of course. He was pushed. He felt like Sherlock crossed the line. He's not stupid enough to think that he is responsible of  _all_ of the blame. Sherlock was aiming for him to get hit. Sherlock openly challenged him and he knows every sore spot he has. He can't believe Sherlock would do something like that and he can't believe he was stupid enough to get caught in the net and actually respond to it in a much more extreme manner than Sherlock was probably aiming for.

A month and a half.

He hasn't seen Sherlock for a month and a half. That is a long time, considering that this is  _Sherlock_ being talked about. Before, Sherlock would never have left him for more than ten hours. Now, a month and a half?

He's getting depressed. He's lost his best friend. Physically. ' _Just physically? Or in every sense of the word?_ ' NO. Sherlock is  _still_ his best friend and Sherlock is  _still_ alive. He had never had this kind of friendship or relationship with anyone other than Sherlock. Sherlock isn't just his best friend, but he is the best man that he has ever known.

Sherlock leaving him has already killed him inside. He is not surprised that he is in a terrible state right now. He even temporarily gave up his position as Captain because he can't stay focused. The coach let him have a leave, probably understanding the situation he is in because he  _never_ gets out of focus.

He needs Sherlock.

* * *

He left his own place from under the bridge already. He has gone through so many places for shelter and kept seeking out food. No one seems to judge him as odd when he is with the other homeless. He thanks his manipulative but considerate actions in trusting the homeless to help him whether if he is able to provide them with something or if he is trying hard to survive to be one of them.

At night. The thoughts haunt him. He hates his mind sometimes. 

' _I wonder what my parents are thinking as of right now. They are most probably happy that I am gone from their lives... but may also be furious that they would have to do the trouble to lie if ever someone asks them where their youngest son is. Mycroft is most probably happy that he doesn't have his stupid brother to bother him anymore... and John. John's probably happy as well. He did say he wanted to avoid me... a virus._ '

He tries to shut up his mind as he lies down on the cold harsh ground, trying hard to sleep... but his mind won't stop thinking and turning, betraying him. He finds himself missing the people close to him.

' _You shouldn't miss anything or anyone. No one misses you in that life. Deal with the facts. They don't bother with you and you shouldn't with them. Not anymore._ '

He shakes his head to clear his though of his old life. He tries to focus on the music in his memories, and deep in his mind palace is the music he wrote himself. He left his violin.

' _Stop thinking about your past life._ '

Spoken as if he's actually dead.

* * *

"You alright, mate? John?" Greg asks him as he sits on the bench beside him. He looks up at him and back down on the ground. He has been here since the professor let them out early. He sat, rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his fingers together, and looked down on the ground. Trying hard not to think of Sherlock being six feet under. "John?"

He blinks at the second time Greg had called him. "Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine."

Greg snorts, sitting beside him, "You got that from Sherlock."

"Hmm?" John asks, looking at the other teen briefly.

"When he's not fine and you ask him whether he's okay, he'd always answer the positive. Lying bastard," Greg chuckles. "Come on, mate. Stop worrying, he'll come back... We can always go to a pub, you know? If you ever need a drink..."

He pales. "No. No. I-I don't- I don't want to drink. I don't-" '- _want to be a drunk like Harry and dad. I know I'll be an alcoholic if I continue this. I don't want to_ need  _a drink._ '

"John? John! Look at me, John!" He hears Greg panic. "John, look at me!" His head was forced to look up and he sees the worrying eyes of Greg. "Mate, I'm sorry if I-"

"No. I know what you're trying to do, Greg," he replies, getting himself away from Greg. "I appreciate it, alright? I don't... I don't want to talk about it," he ends lamely.

"I'm just trying to help," Greg replies. Before he responds, Greg raises a hand to keep him quiet. "I know you know. I just want to remind you. You and Sherlock may have always been together side-by-side, but I'm also here to guide you two idiots if you need any help. I worry about him, too, and I'm starting to worry about you. Just, call me if you need anything, alright?"

"Yeah... Thanks, Greg," he tells him. "Can you please just..."

"Leave you alone?" Greg asks and he looks at him in surprise because he was easily read. "Yeah, you're making me feel like Sherlock, you know? You're an open book."

He laughs. "Sherlock would tell me how much of an idiot I am to be so predictable."

"The more you talk, the more as if Sherlock is dead," Greg grimaces.

He pales once more. "God, if anything happened to him-"

"Nothing's wrong. Everything will turn out good, in the end. This is _Sherlock_. At the end of the day, he will turn up with that stupid smug grin that will make you want to punch him in the face - and I know you will." 

Greg pats him on the shoulder once and leaves him alone with the thought of a dead bloodied Sherlock on the pavement.

* * *

Mary has been very patient with him. She listens to him as he talks about his sadness over Sherlock. As of right now, they're both in his bedroom. She tightens her hold around him as he sits at the edge of the bed, worry creeping out all over him. She rubs his back as she listens to him, giving him short words of encouragement, telling him it's okay. He has been grateful to find her. She's the best girlfriend he could ever had hoped for. It's as if another lonely soul has been partially saved - his. Though he will never be whole without Sherlock.

"London's streets aren't exactly safe, you know? What if...? What would happen if...? I'd never know if he'd ever..."

"Don't be like that. It's going to be alright. He's alive, John. He's probably alive. I can feel it."

He pales. "Probably?" he repeats the word in horror.

"Definitely," Mary corrects herself. He can hear the self-chastisement in her voice.

"Definitely?" he asks, looking at her.

She looks at him with worry. "Yes. Definitely. Definitely alive. You shouldn't worry about him. He'd come back with that smug grin you and Greg kept talking about and then you'd get angry at him and all will be well, alright?" she reassures him.

"But what if it isn't?"

"John, the bottomline here is, you shouldn't let yourself be swallowed by worry and guilt. Come on, you told me that you might have been on the wrong. Okay, maybe you are. Maybe somewhere out there, he isn't okay. Would Sherlock be actually be happy with what you've reduced to? You said he left because you told him to. From what I've heard around, Sherlock is not the type to listen to anyone... except you."

He turns his head to look at her and he smiles at her. "You always know what to say, huh?"

"Of course, I'm brilliant," Mary shrugs. She gives him the same smile he is giving her and she leans forward to kiss him.

* * *

He's shooting up again. He should stop but this is the only way to keep his mind off of his old life, the pain, the hurt, the suffering. He can't think of anything else. It is either death, or drugs. Death... Drugs...

Maybe he should end it all together?

Beside, what use will there be if he is still alive? He has no more reason to live. There is nothing keeping him on the ground of which he stands on.

No. He's just being stupid.

He shouldn't end his life... At least, not yet. He can still survive this, hopefully. Besides, his parents are dangerous people and he shouldn't let that danger spread out throughout the country. They have to be stopped.

* * *

It's been two months. Nothing. Still no sign of Sherlock and he hates it. He hates this life. A life without Sherlock practically has no meaning. Mycroft better be quick in finding that bastard or so help him, he'll flash cards and photographs on the social media until Sherlock is found. He can't keep pretending that nothing is wrong. Especially since things between him and Sherlock is still shit.

"Oi, John!" He sees Sally walk towards him.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Finally got rid of the freak, huh?" she asks.

He gives her his most threatening look. Sally swallows at the immediate change of behaviour. He dares make a step towards her and Sally moves two steps back.

"No," he says lowly.

"Where is he, then?" Sally asks, a bit nervously but daringly raising her brow.

"Off somewhere. Family thing. I'm not entirely too sure," he answers in a cold sarcastic voice that Sherlock would applaud at. 

God, he misses him.

* * *

**SIX MORE  
MONTHS LATER**

" _Hello?_ " she asks through the phone.

"Name?"

" _Anthea's my current name, Mr. Holmes._ "

"Oh, you still understand my code? It's been years. Like... three. Yes, three. Why do you still know? Are you _told_ to remember it, just in case?"

" _No, I remember it myself. Anything concerning you and Mr. Holmes are never forgotten._ "

"Well, _Anthea_ , I wish to speak to him. Now. Right now. Fast. Do it now. Quickly. Now. At this moment. This minute. Right now. Yes."

"... _right._ "

He hears footsteps through the phone and a door opening. He can make out the words from the other end of the line despite their mouths not being near the phone.

" _Phone call for you, sir... Not now, I'm busy... Sir, it's your brother... Give it to me._ " He hears not-Anthea walk towards Mycroft. He hears the door once more opening and closing - probably not-Anthea leaving the room. " _Sherlock._ "

" _Mycroft._ "

He hears Mycroft sigh. " _I was aware of your location for the past five days._ "

"And you didn't kidnap me? Why Mycroft why?"

" _Well, reports show that you're entertained with the course of events... We saw your cipher, to be frank. Pigpen cipher is not exactly hard to decipher, brother. I've heard even children use them. Nevertheless, the way to find the ciphers are more interesting. I'll give you credits for that._ "

"It shut you up?"

" _And why do you call now?_ "

"It took me five days to get my mind straight again," he laughs.

" _And?_ " Mycroft asks, frustrated.

"I'm coming back, duh."

" _Then why are you calling me?_ "

"Because you've a car. Cars... Yes, cars... Lovely cars."

" _Where?_ " he hears Mycroft ask, panicking.

"You know already, right? You've been tracking my phone since I called this one. Could you do it quickly?"

" _Why? What did you do? What the hell did you do, Sherlock?_ "

"...I wrote a list."

He hangs up the phone as his body starts to show signs of an upcoming overdose.

* * *

He went with the driver to fetch his brother. Immediately. He found out that Sherlock is about five minutes away with the speed the driver is using. He already called 999 because of the habit that had grown when he was younger. Behind his car, his own medical team is tagging along in an ambulance.

He has suspected that Sherlock is not in his right mind since the beginning of their conversation. He knows his associate detected it as well because of the urgent look in her eyes. From the mere conversation, he detected from the echoing that Sherlock is on the floor.

' _Oh Sherlock. What have you done?_ ' 

His mind flashes to a Little Sherlock climbing up a tree because of his curiosity and sense of adventure, knowing perfectly well that he would get hurt and knowingly and unsurprisingly took in the pain when he fell. Now, he thinks of an adult Sherlock, using substances to clear his mind and to boost his thinking process, knowing perfectly well that there would be negative effects to him as well and knowingly and unsurprisingly took in his indignity when he called him. Sherlock would always be the same and for him, it is not a good thing.

"Hurry," he demands to the driver.

They reach Sherlock just in time as he starts crying out. He takes over and orders his private medics to bring him to the hospital just as the ambulance from his call to 999 came. Quickly, they bring both in-shock Holmeses to the hospital.

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Before he opens his eyes, he already knows where he is. From the constant beeping, the IV drip, that particular smell you can only encounter there. Hospital room. 

His eyes are still too tired but as he tries to open them, he can make out that it is already nighttime, a few hours after he called Mycroft. He sees a shadow beside his bed. He blinks a few more times and his eyes focuses on the face of a very tired Mycroft, sleeping on the chair beside him, his head on the bed by his side. Does he feel a hand on his? Maybe it's just his imagination.

What did happen? Why is he here? As he tries to remember, his brain being too fuzzy and dizzy, he falls asleep.

* * *

"Rehabilitation," Mycroft tells him after every procedure has been done and he is finally going to be discharged from the hospital... or what he calls one of his hellholes.

"Absolutely not. Not again."

"It is not a question, nor is it a suggestion. You _will_ go to rehab whether you want it or not."

"No."

"It is not up for debate."

"If you try and make me go through Rehabilitation again, the minute I am out of there, I am going back to drugs. You know it won't work."

"House arrest, then."

His blood goes cold. ' _I am found in a compromising situation. Should I choose Rehabilitation where I am forced to do things I do not want? Be bored out of my mind? Go through boring routines and lose my sanity? Or should I choose to be house arrested where I am in constant alert? Stuck with Mycroft and the parents? Never knowing if I am going to live tomorrow? If I answer to go to house arrest, I am practically staging my own suicide. If I choose Rehabilitation, Mycroft will be suspicious._ '

"I can stop myself," he finally answers.

"And look where _that_ brought you."

"I didn't know it was _that_ much in the syringe!"

"Why? Too high to notice?" Mycroft asks. He growls at the pompous gits who tuts and comments, "Temper, brother mine."

"Shut up, you obese git."

"And here we are. You using unnecessary and petty comments to try and put me down when I have the upper hand. It's your choice. Rehabilitation or House Arrest."

"Neither."

Mycroft sighs. "Fine. I'll be kinder to you: House Arrest."

The look he probably has on his face might be considered as annoyed from Mycroft's point of view. No one would understand that what his face is showing is fear.


	11. John Watson

**A FEW HOURS AFTER SHERLOCK**  
**WAS BROUGHT IN HOSPITAL**

"John Watson... John... Please."

Sherlock had and has been mumbling those three words a lot of times in his sleep. He never left Sherlock's side ever since they found him. His associate, with her current name as Anthea, helped him get all that he needed: food, reminders, all that. From what he has heard, Sherlock has been trying to find John Watson, that blond teenager from his school. Those two will be the death of him. Even if he himself hasn't seen John ever since he kidnapped him to be interrogated about Sherlock.

There are lots of things he needs to discuss with Sherlock. On the contrary to popular belief, he cares about his baby brother. He is the only one in his family who truly understood him.

Speaking of family, before Sherlock woke up, he has to call their parents to inform them of the situation. Goodness knows that their parents might receive a heart attack.

" _Siger Holmes_ ," his father starts in the other line.

"Evening, father. It's me, Mycroft."

" _It's good that you're changing numbers every week, son! Also, you haven't called your mother and I in ages! How's work? How are you doing?_ "

"Fine, I suppose... Please listen... There's something I have to tell you."

" _What is it?_ " his father asks, concern etched in his voice.

"Wait. Is mother with you? I think the news would be easier if both of you are present."

" _Unfortunately, no. I'm still at work._ "

"Oh, I see. I'll have to make a separate call then."

" _Mycroft, what is it? I'm getting more and more worried as you stall._ "

"It's Sherlock."

" _What about him?_ "

"We found him."

" _..._ "

"..."

" _... Oh? You did?_ "

"Yes... He-"

" _Where did he run off this time? I swear, one of these days, that brother of yours will give your mother a heart attack. Tell him I'm not happy with his behaviour. We were so worried. Where is he? When are you coming here?_ "

"Actually, he's in the hospital as of this moment."

" _The hospital? Why? What happened? Did he get in a fight?_ "

"Well, he does have plenty of bruises and scars, yes. But no, that is not the reason why he is in hospital."

" _Really? Oh no. Don't tell me he's gone weak again? He stopped eating again, didn't he? Too busy wandering around?_ "

"No, father. He overdosed."

" _..._ "

"..."

" _..._ "

"He flatlined as well..."

" _..._ "

"..."

" _... I... I don't know what to say._ "

"I know."

" _Don't worry about your mother, Mycroft. I'll tell her myself. She'll prefer to hear this one face-to-face rather from a phone call._ "

"Thank you."

" _I just... don't know what to do with your brother._ "

"I don't either. I have no idea why he would run off like this again."

" _Do you suspect anything? Why he gains those bruises you told me about?_ "

"I'm not sure. But from what I suspect that those bruises were old and there are plenty of them around his body. This is not just from school bullies - a professional made them. I suspect that Sherlock was kidnapped and escaped."

" _Dear lord..._ "

"Why he wouldn't come back to the house, I wouldn't know."

He hears his father sigh. He's furious and worried. That would mean his mother would be ten times worse. He really has to talk to both Sherlock and John about what is going on so he can keep his mother's heart intact.

"I have a plan..."

He starts to tell his father everything on what he has in mind for Sherlock and his father patiently listens, not even interrupting him for questions. Finally, he finishes with saying that it would be a choice between Rehabilitation and House Arrest.

"If he did choose house arrest, I'll send over some people who could help him with his recovery," he adds.

" _No,_ " his father says.

"Sorry, what?" he asks.

" _No, you won't send other people. You and I both know it will set your brother off. He doesn't like other people meddling with him. He has both his mother and I to deal with. It will be horrible to add in others to fuss over him._ "

"You're right," he says, not surprised. "Alright, so everything is settled, then?"

" _Yes, everything is. I'll just have to tell your mother all about it. Guess, there would be a surprise dinner after all._ "

He chuckles a bit before frowning upon looking at his sleeping brother.

"Alright, then."

" _It's good to talk to you again, son. But I was hoping you'd call us to check up on us. It's not a good feeling to get a call from your son after a long time without communication, just to find out your other son is in hospital._ "

"I promise to call more."

" _That's good... Goodbye, son._ "

"Good luck with mother."

" _I'll need all the luck I can get._ "

He finally hangs up and sits on the chair beside Sherlock's bed. Continuing to look at this weak barely-alive body breaks him more and more. Thankfully, his phone buzzed that he got distracted from his thoughts that was beginning to show his guilt and self-blame.  

> **_Brought you some food, sir.  
>  May I come in?  
> A_ **
> 
> _**Yes, you may.  
>  M** _

His associate comes in with a tray and puts it on the table beside him. She sits on one of the chairs in the room, back on her phone, her fingers moving quickly.

"I cancelled your meetings for the next two days."

"Thank you," he replies quietly, as if not wanting to wake Sherlock up.

Just from the state of his brother, he firmly believes that Sherlock has been through too much. He just doesn't know what. He can blame the drugs on Sherlock and himself, of course. But the bruises and the scars? If and  _when_ he finds out who did all this to his little brother, they will not be able to see the light of day again.

* * *

' _Finally,_ ' he thinks when Sherlock mumbled his name. At first it worried him that Sherlock's eyes seem to be glazed over. But then there it is, the deductions springing in his eyes.

"Welcome back," he whispers at Sherlock and he realises that it sounds a bit menacing, but too late to change the tone.

"Back from where?" Sherlock asks him. He figures he was asked not out of curiosity but simply because Sherlock's a bit too out of mind to not ask it.

"The dead," he replies with all seriousness.

Sherlock scoffs, "Absurd."

"Absurd?" he raises his brow. ' _It's difficult to keep my tone down._ ' "You flatlined, you _idiot_."

"I am not an idiot!"

"You are a very stupid little boy! Mummy and daddy are crossed!" he says loudly, but not loud enough to be heard outside.

But what he saw made him curious. ' _Did he just flinch?_ ' he asks himself. ' _No... Ridiculous... This is my brother. He would never flinch. But through the process of elimination, there is only one truth._ '

"Oh, who cares?" Sherlock mumbles, closing his eyes.

"By the time you are discharged, I'm sending you back home, and we're bringing you to Rehabilitation."

"Dear lord," Sherlock sulkily replies.

"It's for your own good. You should've thought of the consequences before you started _drugging_ yourself up," he hisses as calmly as he can.

"Not my fault." Sherlock shrugs.

"Then whose fault is it?" he challenges.

Sherlock pauses. "I'll think of someone."

"Yes, you'll think of someone, indeed, like a certain friend of yours, perhaps?"

"I don't have friends," Sherlock mumbles quietly.

"And what do you call John Watson? Not a friend? Should we prepare for an announcement at the end of the week?"

Sherlock gives him a look. "We were never a couple, and he and I are not friends."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. He keeps silent, looking at his umbrella which he is using to hold his weight, like his cane. He knows that there is a little smirk forming on his mouth.

"What?" Sherlock suddenly asks, irritated.

"Nothing."

"I know that silence. What?"

"Well I'd better let you recover. You still have to get through all this, have't you?"

"What?"

"The family will probably be the only one to keep you company-"

"Mycroft!"

"That's what people do, Sherlock. They move on. I warn you: Don't get involved."

"I'm not involved!" Sherlock exclaims rather defensively for his taste.

"No," he answers calmly.

"Watson asked me to help him with school work, how could I say no?"

"Absolutely," he mockingly agrees.

"I'm not _involved,_ " Sherlock spits as if the thought hasn't even occurred to him.

"I believe you," he tells him. "Really, I do... Have a lovely time in the hospital, Sherlock. Keep calm and do try to rest."

"I will," Sherlock says, closing his eyes. He knows that Sherlock is pretending to sleep in order to stop the discussion.

As he walks away, he stops by the doorway and turns around to look at his brother. "Oh, by the way, Sherlock?" Sherlock raises his brow, with his eyes still closed. "Do you remember... Redbeard?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open in an instant. He blinks a few times. ' _Subconsciously tightening his jaw. Clenching his fist. I struck a cord._ '

Sherlock looks at him. "I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft," he answers, hoarsely whispering.

"No, of course you're not," he replies seriously. "Enjoy not being involved," he warns and leaves the room but secretly stays outside. He doesn't want his brother to know how worried he has been. He'll never hear the end of it.

* * *

**AFTER SHERLOCK  
WAS DISCHARGED**

They arrive and he scoffs at the sight. Of all places, it had to be the house. The car door is opened for him and he climbs out. He sees the parents walking towards the car. They look at each other and their eyes scream, "MURDER!"

' _Now, all I need to do is to get Mycroft to distract them before they unleash hell._ '

Turning around, he notices that Mycroft did not come out of the car nor does he seem to be planning to leave the car. "Aren't you coming?" he asks through the open car window.

"There's a red alert at work. I have to be there in... seventeen minutes," Mycroft answers, checking his watch.

"But how will I-"

"This is your fault and you need to be responsible for your actions like a decent human being. You'll probably deserve the punishment mother and father will give you."

"But-"

"This is your punishment, Sherlock."

"Mycroft-"

"Let's go," Mycroft tells the driver and off he goes.

The footsteps stop behind him. ' _Shit._ '

"So, the prodigal son finally decided to come back home," Siger comments and eyes him. "You're in a lot of trouble. How convenient that Mycroft would receive a red alert from work. How convenient indeed for him to be gone for a while..."

And then he knew that his own father pulled some strings to keep Mycroft busy.

"Chores. Two hours of sleep only. No contact to anyone whatsoever," Violet pointedly tells him. "We'll put bars on your window and add locks on the outside of your door. No dinner at all, not until you're dead... and no, not even dog food. We'll add more security to your room and the house so you wouldn't be able to leave," his mother continues as they walk in the manor. 

"Get inside, now," Siger orders him menacingly. His legs tremble beneath him. Siger steps forward threateningly and whispers like the threatening evil son of a demon that he is. "I... Said... _Now._ "

That is enough for him to open the door and run inside with Siger running after him. He hears Violet yell, "Sweetie! Don't draw too much blood! The carpet is brand new!"

He runs faster.

They both go around the house with him trying to find out the perfect spot to hide. A shiver runs through his spine as he hears his father yell, "Violet! Where's the poker? It's not beside the fireplace!"

"It's in between the chair and the bookshelf! Use the old one! The new one is the black metallic one and I don't want it stained!"

"Alright!"

' _How can they act so casual about hitting me with a fireplace POKER?! Oh right... It's because I deserve this. I shouldn't have called Mycroft when I overdosed! I should have let myself die! Stupid high me!_ '

He runs faster, but in the end, his father manages to reach him and hits the side of his body with the poker. He cries in pain as he falls on the ground.

' _If he stabs me, then I'm free. Just stab me!_ '

Siger tuts. "Pathetic. You can be killed easily. Stupid move: running through the library. I know every room, every corridor, every passages, every inch of this manor... and you think you can hide from me here?"

Siger swings his poker and hits him once more. He notices that he isn't hit with the pointy end of the poker. They're trying to prolong his pain. He feels the tears flow down his eyes like a waterfall. He can't take it.

"Now," Siger hits him once more with the poker and drops it. "No. This doesn't feel right. I'm not amused at all." Siger places a foot on the back of his head to keep him in place and he hears him undo his belt. "This however..."

He shouts when Siger swings and hits him with the belt with much more force than usual. The belt's buckle hits him again. He shouts.

Siger slams his foot on his head. "SHUT UP!"

He is hit multiple times with the belt. He can't take it anymore.

"YOU. DE.SERVE. THIS. TREATMENT!" Siger hits with every word.

He feels his shirt being pulled up - exposing his probably bruising and bloodied back. Then he feels the belt's bite once more. The pain is much worse. He can feel everything.

"STOP!" he cries.

Siger turns him harshly around and cries out when his back makes contact with the floor.

"NO!" he shouts with desperation as he is hit multiple times with the belt. Pathetically, he tries to cover himself with his arms and legs but Siger keeps kicking him until he lets himself go. Even as he screams at the top of his voice, no one will hear him. First being that the only people in this house is the three of them and loyal servants to his father. The second being the house being the largest around and the probability of neighbours hearing him from so many walls is small.

Siger starts punching him over and over and over until he is out of breath, moaning in pain. 

' _I shouldn't have called Mycroft. I should have let the overdose kill me and die. I could have been free._ '  
' _You deserve this hell. You deserve to be punished._ '  
' _John, please._ '

He battles inside his mind as he battles with his own father. He feels the man put his hand around his neck and starts punching him in the face with the other hand.. Punching him with every word.

"I. DON'T. WANT. A. JUNKIE. FOR. A. SON."

"Please, sir," he begs, the tears flowing much freely now.

Siger forces him to stand up by holding his neck and slams him to the wall. "So, you're begging now?"

"Can't... Breathe..." He tries to claw away from his father's grip but he is too strong. "Stop... Please..."

Siger tightens his grip and gives him one hard punch before he is released and is kicked brutally once... twice... thrice...

And the last thought in his mind was:

' _I should have at least told John that I am sorry for existing._ '

Black. 


	12. I'm Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarification:
> 
> Sherlock has been gone for eight months when he was high enough to actually call his brother for help.

He wakes up in his room. True to her words, his mother did, in fact, install bars on his windows. He feels like Harry Potter at these times, and yes, he read Harry Potter. He tries to sit up and surprisingly finds out that he does not feel the "right" amount of pain. Usually, he wouldn't even be able to sit up, but he finds that he can, even though pain shoots up from his body at the movement. He suspects that his parents actually found the need to help him with his wounds or else they would be dealing with the corpse of their biological son.

Looking around the room, he curses the fact that he can see his reflection on the mirror.

' _Disgusting._ '

He sees a pale, skinny, scared-looking lump of flesh full of bruises and scars and blood. He sees bags under the pair of red-rimmed tearful eyes just above the cheeks which are starting to be dampened from water coming from those eyes that are sectoral heterochromic and... sad. Interesting.

The crying boy's hands are trembling and more tears fall down his cheeks. He looks away because he couldn't stand seeing that poor pathetic creature any longer. In addition to that, he found that his eyes have blurred from something he doesn't understand.

* * *

It's been three more months since he's been held prisoner in his own room. It's been nothing but chores, clean this, clean that, punched here, kicked there, slapped here, cut there. He has noticed that they had both been very careful not to let his face receive cuts or bruises. He gets hungry - very hungry - and probably had lost more weight (which makes him _more_ underweight than he already was). He's also tired. Very tired. 

He hates the fact that he is not allowed to touch knives or scissors or anything sharp. They probably think he'll kill them. They have no idea that he is very much willing to use that sharp object on himself and just shut everything up.

But in all honesty, there are times that he wants to. There are many ways to kill his parents... but he doesn't. Maybe it's because he doesn't have the heart to kill his own parents despite them being sadistic bastards. He'd rather see himself lock them up than kill them. Maybe a part of him wants them to feel the pain he had always felt. Maybe he just doesn't have the heart to kill them. No. They deserve punishment.

* * *

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

It's been a month and finally, he's allowed to go to university. His parents had pulled some strings to his old school in order for him to do work while in school. He finished it with flying colours but he doesn't care if his parents ignored him. 

He begs his parents to go outside the same night they told him of his upcoming semi-freedom in a month... and he was forced to kiss his parents' shoes so he would be allowed. He has no idea why he has been forced to such derogatory gestures but he is desperate to look at his surroundings. 

They allow him.

He thanks them politely and sincerely, and smiles happily when they turn around. He has never been more thankful towards his parents in his entire life.

He goes outside and looks longingly and excitedly at the outside world which he had only seen through the window or inside the gates for the past four months.

' _I'm outside! I AM OUTSIDE!_ '

He feels like jumping if it wasn't because he is still in pain though he isn't as skinny or pale-looking as before.

And so being outside, he visits the one person he wants to see again the most.

* * *

 "Sorry that took so long. There were so many ladies," Mary tells him, patting his shoulder as she walks towards her seat. They are currently in a fancy restaurant just beside the school he is finally free from. He's wearing his best suit and Mary is wearing a beautiful purple dress and she looks so... beautiful. "You okay?" she asks and he's finally aware that he's been staring at her.

"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine."

She smiles at him. He chuckles.

"Now then," she starts. "What did you want to tell me?"

' _Oh god. Oh god. Oh god._ '

"Uhh... So... Mary. Listen... Um... We've been together for a year, but we barely saw nor communicated with each other because of school and activities, and the fact that we're going to university. This would mean that we have been _actually_ together for a few months and..."

' _Just tell her._ '

"Go on," she encourages. ' _Bless this woman._ '

"Yes, I will... As you know, this year hasn't been easy for me... and being with you..." He looks at her eyes and she looks back. "Yeah... Meeting and being with you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree."

"What?"

"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you." He laughs at her audacity and her cockiness. She chuckles. "Sorry."

"Well, no. That's, er..." He looks at her. "You know... We've just really seen each other twice a month since we re-ignited our relationship... With you being the responsible... er... student and my Rugby Practices and... er... school work and all that... Even if we barely saw each other, and if combined, have only been in the same room for a few weeks, I just want to tell you that... er... that is... er..."

She giggles when he keeps stuttering and so he clears his throat.

"I just want to tell you..."

"... John," he hears a baritone voice beside him.

* * *

"... John," he says that name. He notices John freeze. Inhale. Exhale. Disbelief in his features. John finally looks up at him. This time, he is the one who's scared. He feels like John would be a bomb about to explode... but he needs that bomb and he doesn't care if it explodes on his face and kills him.

"John?" the girl, Mary - he remembers, sitting in front of John says.

John stands up rather shakily and he fears John would stumble. As he tries to reach out for him to steady him, he stops at the look John has on him as they both stare at each other after a year of not communicating.

"John, what is it? What?" Mary asks, panicking, he can tell.

"Well... Short version: I'm still... Not dead..." John looks at him and he starts to feel nervous. He should have warned him or something. ' _Oh god... I really should have warned him first... But what could I have said? Shouldn't things like this be better said face-to-face than via text? That's what I heard, anyway._ ' "Bit mean, springing back to you like that, I know, probably could have given you a heart attack-"

"Oh no, it's you..." Mary whispers, shocked.

"Oh yes," he replies to her.

"Oh my God."

"Not quite."

"You were gone. You never came back."

"No."

"You left!"

"I did."

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Do you have any idea what you've done to him!" she scolds him, her own voice cracking.

He starts to grow even more and more nervous. John is much  _much_ angrier than he thought... but he couldn't help himself. He misses John so much. After all he's been through, he wants his friend again. He doesn't even care that John is angry at him, nor the fact that he is unwelcome and unwanted by John. He just wants to see him again, even if it means John doesn't.

"Okay, John. I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology," he tries.

John slams his fist on the table.He hears a lot of cries from other customers at John's action. He himself flinched violently but was too used to it and was able not to show it. Mary starts comforting John with words, her voice breaking probably at the sight of John looking like what he himself is feeling.

"One year..." he whispers tightly.

' _Fuck... He sounds so..._ '

"You disappeared... I thought... you were dead... Hmm?"

' _Oh shit, John._ '

"Now, you left me hanging... hmm? How could you do that?" John asks miserably and he bites his lip, not knowing what to say for the first time. "How?" he tearfully asks.

"Before you do anything you might regret... One question... Just let me ask one question..." He licks his lips and points at John's glass on the table. "Are you really gonna drink that?"

He chuckles to himself. Mary laughs in disbelief. He swallows, realising that his attempt of a joke is not welcome.

Next thing he knows, John grabs the lapels of his suit. As John runs, dragging him with him, he grabs a hold of John's wrists in an instant so he wouldn't be choked to death. Then realising that John is the one doing this and not his father, he lets his hands stay around his neck because he deserves this beating as well.

The two young adults fall on the ground. He winces and hides back a wince when the new cuts and bruises on his back make contact with the floor. John keeps his hands around his neck and tightens his grip. He keeps quiet as he tries to remove John's hand as gently as he can.

' _John! I know you're angry! Don't kill me yet! I haven't apologised yet!_ '

Mary and some of the waiters in the restaurant grabs John from him. He stays on the ground, breathing heavily, trying to readjust his eyes to focus.

' _Air... Air... Air..._ '

"Please, sir. You have to leave," he hears someone tell John.

"Kids these days," he hears an old man in the nearby table comment.

He stands up slowly, wincing in pain. A waiter helps him up, touching his back and chest tightly to stand him up. He cries out a bit. Thankfully, John and Mary are already outside.

* * *

"So, where've you been?" John asks as they sit in another diner. Mary sits patiently beside John, looking at him as well.

"Nowhere..." he whispers.

Silence until, "...why?" John asks quietly.

"I've been busy going across cities... I did take some cases with finding lost items... This one time, a woman our age named Molly Hooper last her pet cat. I deduced carefully from the fur around her house and saw little trails going to the other side of the road... I didn't see any signs that the cat might have died... So I followed the trail until I saw the one confirming my initial deductions that-"

"You know for a genius you can be remarkably thick... I don't care _how_ you spent your year, Sherlock. I want to know _why_."

"Why? Because a lot has asked for my consultation!" John keeps staring at him and he finally gets the message. "Oh.. 'Why' as in..." John nods and so does Mary. "I see... Yes... 'Why?'... That's a little more difficult to explain."

"I've got all night," John answers darkly.

He clears his throat. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea..." ' _...of dumping me in the manor and then going off to live in a place of his own without bothering to check up on me for the past four months._ '

"Oh, so it's your brother's plan?" He nods in answer. "Was he the only one? The only one who knew?"

"...C-couple of others," he answers quietly. John lowers his head and he panics and starts to babble. "I wanted it to be left alone. It was a very elaborate plan - it had to be. So the trail of fur lead me to-"

"Who else knew?" John asks again in that hoarse tight whisper of his. He wants to answer but hesitates. "Who?" John asks louder and he flinches.

"Bill."

"Bill?"

"Bill Wiggins and some of my homeless network and that's it."

"And you didn't bother to text?" John scolds. ' _I want to but I couldn't._ ' He keeps silent as a response. "So just your brother, the school hacker, and a hundred tramps?"

He chuckles. ' _Silly John!_ ' "No! Twenty-five, at most."

John jumps on him across the table. When he sees the table move, he guides John to get across him and be throttled to the ground. John punches him hard and he can feel his lip bursting. They're all thrown out again.

* * *

They're in another diner. He stands in front of Mary and John as they stand beside each other. John doesn't look at him and he winces in pain as he presses a napkin to his lip.

"So, how's your sister?" he asks John out of curiosity.

John scoffs. "Like you care."

' _Oh._ ' He feels a heavy weight on his chest at the implied meaning of John's words. He goes back to what John had last said to him. Nevertheless, he puts on a brave face as he tries to even out his breathing.

"One word, Sherlock! That is _all_ I would have needed! One word to let me know that you're, at least, alive!"

"... I've nearly been in contact so many times-" John scoffs disbelievingly. "-but under circumstances, and busy work, I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because I've been busy and you might... you know..." ' _learn that I am just a worthless junkie who left my own life so I would die on my own instead of dying in the hands of my parents because I am the worst possible human being in existence next to serial killers and assaulters._ '

"What?"

"Distract me."

"Distract you?"

"You wouldn't understand..."

He sees John turn red in fury. "Why? Because I'm too slow for your mind?!"

He, then, feels a pang of guilt. He did tell John just that the last time they saw each other... but he was confused and angry, and he doesn't want John to know what kind of person he really is... John'll be disgusted.

"You did miss me though... Admit it... The thrill of the chase... The blood pumping through your veins... Just the two of us against the rest of the world-"

John grabs his lapels again and he knows exactly what John is about to do. He doesn't stop him and even braces himself for the upcoming blow.

Now, his nose is bleeding. He didn't pass out, thankfully, but he falls on the ground and the manager yells at the three of them to get out. John storms out of the diner. Mary clicks her tongue at the door before crouching down towards him, and he immediately curls around himself as defence. Quickly, his mind registers that this is Mary and not anyone else, he pretends that he is just turning to help himself stand up. 

To the untrained eye, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Mary helps him by pulling him with his arms and his back stretches a bit and he tries hard not to moan in pain. pushes his back to stand him up and he flinches and bites his lip so hard, it draws blood... again... 

She guides him outside as John hails a cab. He pinches his nose and holds a napkin on it which Mary had given him on the way outside.

"I don't understand..." he tells her. "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Gosh, you don't know anything about human nature, do you?"

"Nature? No... Human? No."

"I'll talk him round."

"You will?"

"Oh yeah." She nods.

He deduces her and everything comes out beautifully. She seems like a good fit for John. A perfect fit, even. Obviously, she is the one who helped John recover from what the misery he had caused. ' _She's good for him. She makes him happy. She's important. He needs her. He loves her. I have to leave. I'll only be a burden on his shoulders. He hates me. He doesn't need me as much as I need him._ '

She smiles at him and John calls for her. She gives him a nod as a farewell and follows John into the cab. He watches them both enter and the cab move on. John doesn't even look back at him.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispers to the moving cab.

He turns to leave...

...and Moran and his friends catch and pull him to the alley as they smile wickedly at him.


	13. Old Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I promise I'll try to update more often! It's the end of my second term in university so I'll probably post more in a month.

Since he left that faithful night, all he wanted was to go back to his old life, not the life of drugs and... torment. He wants to go back to being a student again. Forgotten and unseen by his peers. To be left alone by them and be relieved to be alone as he walks along. Though he may still be tormented both by family and peers, he wants that life again if it meant that John would be by his side.

But John doesn't want him... except these idiots currently do.

"What?' he growls, not really in the mood for this kind of torment right now. He is forced to kneel down on the ground. He can feel someone stepping on his feet behind him in order for him to be immobile while two others are holding him by the shoulders to keep him upright.

"Oh-ho! Sherlock doesn't seem to want to cooperate today," a voice behind him says.

After a while, a man, who is probably the same age as he with jet-black hair in a suit, laughs. Isn't he the same person he has seen Moran with? He tilts his head at the mysterious man. He stands in front of him and leans down to further derogate him.

"Jim Moriarty... Hi," the mysterious man greets in a high-pitched voice. 

"Irrelevant," he answers, rolling his eyes. Jim laughs once more.

"I can see why you like him, Seb," he tells Moran, who in turn, gives him a look. Jim laughs once more. He finds that he is starting to really  _really_ hate that laugh.

"Come on, Mr Moriarty! Can't we kick him in the head yet?" one of them yells.

"Patience," Jim replies in a cold low voice - a big contrast to his laugh. "You don't mind that I brought these people along, do you?" he asks him. "I don't like getting my hands dirty... I'm disappointed, to say the least, that you're not more aware of my background than I thought. It would be horrific if you knew about... _all of it_ ," Jim tuts. "So, perhaps I should save the reveal for another time, don't you think?"

"Reveal?"

"I'm a specialist, you see... well, specialist-in-training... like you!"

Not wanting to look stupid because he doesn't understand what Jim's talking about, he decides to ignore him. "Reveal what? What are you talking about?"

"Now's not the time, Sherlock, dear," Jim replies.

"Jim." Moran starts. Jim hums in reply. "Can we cut the little petty talk and move on?" he asks and Jim gives a small chuckle, shaking his head.

"Alright," Jim laughs.

He finds that he wants to stuff Jim Moriarty's mouth with a dirty shoe. It truly is getting on his nerves and he finds that he truly  _doesn't know_ what he might do if he cannot contain his boiling irritation. His mind stops at the words Jim just said.

"Oh-ho-ho! What have we got here?" Jim asks, turning around and circling around him... looking at his neck. He hates the fact that he is kneeling. So helpless. "It seems our friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, is used to being strangled to death... I wonder why... Hmm...?" 

Jim stops in front of him and leans forward. The insane teenager looks at him smugly as he gives him a deathly murderous glare in return.

"Hmm... Secretive, are we? I guess I'll have to be patient in unlocking these secrets, hmm?" Jim gives him another smile. "Well, I better be off... So nice to have a proper chat..."

"A chat in which I hadn't participated in?" he dares reply and Jim grins.

"I agree. You should have taken the small amount of time for your advantage, Sherlock. You might miss your vocal chords..." Jim grins wickedly.

The said man leaves the alley. Moran's group and Moran himself looms over him. They tighten their hold over him while the others look at him as if a drug they are craving to take. They really do miss him, don't they?

"Watson ain't our captain no more, Shercock," one of them says. "And he ain't coming to save ya."

' _Nor save you from your pathetic excuse of grammatical use,_ ' he thinks sarcastically.

"Oh, it's been a long time since I've done this," Moran says excitedly.

The jaw hurts from the first punch from the first man of the group. Unsurprisingly, Moran's hit, though forceful and a good one, is nothing compared to  _their_ hits. He rolls his eyes at the low-level hit on his face.

"Gentlemen," Moran starts.

And that's when it started... again.

He should not have rolled his eyes at the  _pathetic low-level_ hits of his peers. They threw him to the ground. They kicked every part of his body. His back burned as they kick on his old wounds and bruises. They punched him multiple times on the stomach and the chest, causing him to breathe abnormally.

He grunts and moans in pain quietly as they continue.

As he is punched, he quickly sees the watch of whoever it is that punched him. Nine o'clock. The Holmeses will kill him for coming home late and might accuse him of taking advantage of his short amount of freedom and might not ever let him out again.

He doesn't want this. He closes his eyes and breathe in as calmly as he can. He focuses on John which only made things worse. John's rejection, along with his current beating and the fact that he is two hours late from curfew, is overwhelming. His life is a disaster.

* * *

He limps out of the alley. He realises that he has gone half of his life limping. Sighing, he clutches his ribs as a sliver of pain flows throughout his body. Their hits may not be as strong but a number has been done to it. The man-power behind it is strong enough to be almost equal with Siger's.

He tries to walk back to his house, but it is too painful. He leans by the wall, trying to breathe calmly and taking a break from getting easily exhausted. He hears a car approaching and panics as the black car pulls over beside him, thinking that his parents might have caught him already.

"Mr Holmes," Mycroft's associate greets as she comes out of the car.

"Anthea, as of now, was it?" he asks and she smiles briefly before gesturing towards the car.

Seeing as he has no other choice or else he might be tranquillised, he moves to get in the car but stumbles on his own foot. Anthea was able to catch him and helps him get inside. Much to his surprise, his brother is sitting in the car beside him. Anthea follows him inside and grabs a medical kit and starts to prepare with Sherlock's wounds and bruises.

"Take the longest way to the manor," Mycroft tells the driver. They drive away.

"So..." He rolls his eyes. "What am I doing here? What is needed of me?"

"I saw _you_ needing help. I came as soon as possible," Mycroft answers.

"I don't need help. Especially, yours." He grimaces.

"Sherlock, how long?" Mycroft asks. He raises his brow at Mycroft in reply. "How long had those boys been... targeting you like this?" Mycroft sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, looking out the window, before the cold façade comes back and faces him.

"Not in a while," he replies honestly, not really wanting to see the look on Mycroft's face on him ever again. It looks almost... painful. No. He has decided to never see that look on his brother again.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lying. We haven't interacted for a very long time."

Mycroft nods to himself and looks out of the window, ending the conversation entirely. Sherlock sighs as he lets Anthea cover his scars.

* * *

He chastises himself.

' _How could I let this happen? In a few years, I am going to be the secret head of the British Government but look at me. I did not even have the small amount of idea that my brother has been... beaten up by his peers for a long time. I was stupid to assume that the action was stopped early or, at least, never happened since I started university. I'm blind. Am I blind? Indeed, I am. I am not a good brother._ '

Looking at his younger brother, Sherlock almost looks... peaceful with his eyes closed at short periods and then looks straight-forwardly, looking at the view in front of him. If it wasn't for the cuts and the bruises, he might have said that nothing is amiss.

He has to protect Sherlock.

* * *

' _What Mycroft doesn't know won't hurt him._ '

On the contrary to everyone's belief, he does care about his older brother, though he will never admit that. Despite their differences and their distractingly plenty amounts of similarities, they were very close when they were younger than they are now. Ever since Mycroft's departure towards university, it seems that they had drifted apart and are never the same. Either way...

He has to protect Mycroft.

* * *

"Are there any more reasons why you should need medical attention that I should be aware of?" Mycroft asks him.

"Nope."

"You lie, little brother. You clutched your ribs. How many are broken?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, you better understand what I mean. We're here."

He looks out of the window. Bart's Hospital.

"I thought we were going back to the manor?" he asks.

"I changed the car's course a while ago."

"When did you do that? I didn't hear you tell the driver!"

"There is something called technology, little brother."

"... I don't need this, Mycroft!" he finally yells in the car. He doesn't need hospital treatment! He can clean his own wounds, for goodness' sake! What's the point in going in a hospital if you can fix yourself? He winces at his own words. ' _"_ _Fix"? I am not broken! I don't need fixing!_ '

"Yes, you do, Sherlock," Mycroft replies and his head snaps, thinking that he might have said that out loud before remembering what he just said before he remembered what he said. "Your state won't be grand in the eyes of our parents."

Finally, he agrees with Mycroft but will never say that out loud. 

"I'm fine," he says, irritated beyond belief.

"And does the word, _fine_ , mean completely in pain and has trouble breathing?"

' _It seems that way in this universe, probably, yes._ '

"No. Fine means fine, and I _am_ fine." He rolls his eyes at Mycroft dramatically.

"Get out of the car or I'll have to force you."

"You're forcing me?"

" _Will_ force you if you don't go at your own accord."

"I am not going out."

Mycroft, then, grabs his phone from his pockets. "Well, I should call John to convince you-" He looks at Mycroft in alarm.

"Alright! Alright! Alright! Fine! I'm going! I'm going!" He raises his hands in mock surrender. Mycroft tries hard not to raise his brows in surprise.

He gets out of the car and walks in the hospital with the help of Mycroft and Anthea, demanding her and Mycroft to release him since he doesn't need help. He did.

* * *

' _One year. He's been gone a year... and comes back spontaneously like some wizard._ '

He admits that he misses the bastard but he's still angry with him. How can he just leave his whole life like that? Without even something to tell them? Reassure them with? To stop them from worrying their brains out? 

Although, he admits that it probably was his fault. He remembers yelling at Sherlock. He doesn't remember all that he said, and that's the awful part.

' _What if I said something completely horrible at him and I don't remember it? What is the point of asking for forgiveness if you don't even remember what you're sorry for? How could you explain why you did what you did if you don't even know what you did?_ '

He looks at Mary beside him as they sit by the park. Mary is his anchor now. Not Sherlock.

Right?

* * *

He passes-by Molly Hooper in the hospital.

"Oh hello, Sherlock," she greets him.

"Molly." He nods at her and proceeds to walk with his brother out of the hospital after being taken care of and scolded by his doctor.

Molly catches up with them. "I just want to thank you... again... for finding Toby... along with dad's exclusive files on his research... We really... appreciated it..."

"You're welcome, Molly Hooper." He gives a forced smile and walks out with his brother, leaving Molly in the hospital.

"Okay," he hears her mutter.

As they reach the car, Mycroft starts with, "The same Molly Hooper who-?"

"Yes, the same Molly Hooper who," he answers, annoyed.

"She doesn't seem bothered with it," his brother tells him.

"Her parents work in a hospital. Of course, she isn't bothered with it."

"That much is obvious, of course. Well, what I mean to say is that I wouldn't have thought someone would still fancy _you_ after witnessing you submit to your substance abuse."

"Wrong place at the wrong time."

"You used at their back garden while staying over."

"Who cares?"

"I'm going to have a word with our parents."

"You sound like a teacher, except that your blood-related to me."

"Do not even compare me to people with such... _idiocy_."

"Whatever you say, Professor Fatcroft."

Mycroft frowns and he feels proud of himself. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

* * *

' _I'll visit Sherlock tomorrow,_ ' he promises to himself. It is a good and marvellous thing that Sherlock's brother gave him the address of their house.

* * *

"COME HERE AT ONCE!" he hears his father yell.

"IMMEDIATELY!" he hears his mother continue. He walks to the sitting room with his head down. "Would you mind explaining what happened?" Violet asks.

"And don't lie," Siger warns him.

"I-I got... I..." he stutters.

Violet comes up to him and slaps him with her left hand. He can even feel the ring. Oh thank goodness he was not backhanded. What a ring.

"Talk," she says coldly with murder.

"I got beaten up," he mutters.

Violet slaps him again. "Louder!" she demands.

"I GOT BEATEN UP!" he yells.

Violet slaps him twice on one cheek, and backhands him on the other. Yes, he felt that ring, alright. His face is in pain. There must be multiple hand prints on his face. Her slaps are as bad as his.

"Don't yell at your own mother," she says quietly, as if she's talking to the Queen. Violet and Siger look at each other and nod. Violet, then, gestures Siger towards him. 

"What did I say about yelling in the house?" Siger asks him.

"That it breaks our vocal chords?" he answers. Siger slaps him, though a bit less force than his mother's. ' _Odd_.'

"Don't act smart. We all know you aren't, you pathetic idiot."

His father wraps his hands around his neck and tightens his grip. He slaps him, hard, the normal hard slap he always does. Now, he isn't pulling himself back. Violet stands beside Siger, yelling at him, telling him what an idiot he is for not being good enough, for not seeing where he was going, for not outsmarting those idiots, for being pathetic, for ruining the family name.

"You are no son of mine," she finishes.

"I really want to kill him, Violet," Siger tells Violet, sounding utterly frustrated.

"You're not the only one with that desire, dear," she answers.

He has tears in his eyes, wanting everything to stop. He wants to tell them that he wishes that as well. He'd rather be killed right now. He cannot handle this anymore. He can't do it. His parents hate him; Mycroft will hate him if he tells the truth; John hates him for being him; everyone and everything hates him; even himself.

He wants it to stop. "P-please..." he whispers, trying to remove Siger's hands on his neck. He doesn't want suffering anymore. He wants to die.

"What was that?" Violet asks.

"Please," he says louder.

"Please what?" The two Holmeses look at him with raised brows and questioning disgusted looks.

"Please... kill me..." 

He closes his eyes as tears fall down from his eyes. He said it. He finally said it. He told them. He finally told them. His darkest secret. He finally told them what he wants in this world. Violet and Siger look at each other and starts to laugh. He closes his eyes harder, as if it would quieten their laughter.

' _Laughter. They laugh. They mock me with their laughter. I knew even killing me would be a dream._ '

"We're not going to kill you. What if someone asks where you are? We can't lie all the time. That would be too much work for someone like you. They will find out that we killed you and we would rather not be locked up. No matter how much we don't like your existence," Violet tells him.

He closes his eyes in frustration once more. Both Siger and Violet are capable of breaking him emotionally and physically. While they do both, the weight on his shoulders grow heavier and heavier by the minute. Tears fall from his eyes but he doesn't make a sound... not anymore.

He gives up.

Siger removes his grip on him and he continues doing his chores. When he finishes, he was told to sleep in the basement for a week as punishment for getting beaten up. 

He wants Mycroft to help him, but he knows that Mycroft thinks highly of his parents. It would break him. He doesn't want that for his brother. He'd rather have this than the alternative. He can deal with pain since he has gone through a lot of it. Surely, a little more won't hurt.

He goes through his old routines, his old habits...


	14. The Doorbell

This is it. He is going. He is  _finally_ going. Walking along the pavement to Baker Street, he thinks deeply. Who knows? Maybe Sherlock is with Mrs Hudson again. He did tell him a lot of times that he often goes to 221B to spend some time with Mrs Hudson. It makes him smile that Mrs Hudson and Sherlock has a very mother-son relationship and that Sherlock is acting every bit like the momma's boy he probably is while Mrs Hudson is that proud mother who shakes her head at her son's antics. 

He will never forget when that drunk man almost hit Mrs Hudson. Sherlock almost became a murderer himself... Almost... He managed to knock some sense into Sherlock before he actually killed someone.

Sherlock...

It's been a long time since he saw Sherlock return from his sudden disappearance. He misses him, but he won't admit that - so British, he shakes his head. He knocks on the door to 221B Baker Street.

The door opens and Mrs Hudson's surprised face greets him.

"Mrs Hudson," he greets.

"John? What-? Come in."

She gestures for him to come in... coldly, he might add. They go to her flat and she makes tea. Mrs Hudson slams the cup on the table. He looks at her in both surprise and caution. He really got her mad, didn't he? She slams the sugar on the table and he is both in awe that she didn't break the fragile china, and scared because... it's an angry Mrs Hudson.

She points at the sugar. "Oh no, you don't take it, do you?"

"No."

"You forget a little thing like that."

"Yes..."

"You forget lots of little things, it seems." Mrs Hudson looks at him and he looks back. She gives him a very sad look and a pang of guilt courses through his body.

"Listen..." he starts.

"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it..."

"No..."

"But just _one_ phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done!" she tells him sadly.

' _Is this how I sounded when I told this to Sherlock?_ ' he thinks. "I know," he replies.

"After all we went through!" Mrs Hudson says, frustrated.

A flash of memories enter his head. Sherlock and he both sitting near the fire at 221B, laughing about their small adventures from running from gangs in alleys and thieves they witnessed. Mrs Hudson would give them tea, smiling at them fondly as they laugh at the looks on their attackers' faces. Sherlock and he both sitting at the bench by the park, resting after a long time of running after a cab because Sherlock stupidly forgot his wallet. Mrs Hudson would scold Sherlock for not eating enough. Mrs Hudson would tell Sherlock not to abuse the furniture.

221B... It's his home.

"Yes... I am sorry..." he tells her. She sits beside him.

"Look, I don't want to sound rude but why now? What suddenly changed your mind?"

"I just want to ask if you've seen Sherlock."

"He hasn't been here since the last time you both came here... last year..." She sighs sadly. "I miss him."

' _Does she even know that he disappeared for a year?_ '

"Isn't he with you?" she asks.

"No... We haven't seen each other much..."

"Oh dear, did you break up?" she start to try and hug him.

He doesn't want to be rude so he lets her hug him. "Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I were never a couple."

"Okay, sweetie," she says sadly.

"Mrs Hudson." He places his hand on her shoulder and looks at her. "How many times do I have to tell you? Sherlock was not my boyfriend."

She rubs her hand on his arm. "It's alright...'

"Mrs Hudson! I am not gay!"

* * *

"Hello?" he answers the phone.

"Hi," the familiar voice replies.

He freezes and looks at his phone in disbelief. He sighs annoyingly. "Oh, you bastard!"

"It's time to go back. You've been letting your grades slide, Graham."

"Greg."

"Greg," Sherlock corrects himself.

"I'd hug you but you're on the phone."

"Sentiment, Lestrade."

"I'm not ashamed that I missed you, Sherlock." He doesn't hear anything for a few minutes. "You still there?"

"Yeah yeah... Yes..." Sherlock answers distractingly.

"It's nice to hear from you, mate." He smiles. ' _He's back! Wait till John hears this!_ ' He hears Sherlock chuckle. "What?"

"Nothing... Nothing... You doing well? Besides your grades?"

' _Did Sherlock Holmes, THE Sherlock Holmes, actually just asked me if I was doing well? Him? Really?_ '

"Yes, I am... Now, listen... It's about John and-" He hears Sherlock sigh. "Sherlock, it would be good for both of you if you go to him at once. I'm telling you."

"No. I'm not going to him."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock."

"I don't see the point."

"He's your best friend."

"I don't know how any of this is your business."

He pauses, "You are both my friends and therefore, this is definitely _my_ business."

Silence. ' _He needed to hear it._ '

"Sherlock?"

He hears Sherlock clear his throat. "Right... Yes... Okay... I have to go, er... Alright... Goodbye, Geoff."

"It's Greg!" he answers, frustrated. He isn't exactly sure, but he thinks he heard Sherlock chuckle somewhere in the alley. ' _The arsehole,_ ' he chuckles to himself. "Seriously though, Sherlock, you can't just go and leave this. You can't just run."

"No, I really have to go."

"Right... Alright... Nice to hear from you, Sherlock."

"...You too." Sherlock hangs up.

He looks at his phone as if it is a magical elf dancing on the palm of his hand. Sherlock sounded genuine. He's been with Sherlock for six years now. He can tell when the teen is being sarcastic, and he knows he isn't on that phone call. It's either Sherlock was being threatened to talk that way or something is really wrong.

* * *

It was really good to hear Greg's voice. Yes, he remembers his name (though he kept forgetting it on the first week when they first met), and it is just a personal inside joke to annoy Greg. He probably knows what he's doing. Greg isn't as stupid as he tells him, and surprises him at times. Like right now.

' _You are both my friends and therefore, this is definitely my business._ ' One of the two sentences that keeps rewinding in his brain.

Greg considers him as a friend. He always thought that Greg only sees him as someone who can help him with his school work, merely an asset or just another tool to get a good grade, like an instrument used in the laboratory, or someone to have a conversation with when he's bored. Apparently, he's wrong. Greg thinks of him as a friend.

Two people considers him as a friend. ' _Wait. Miscalculation._ ' Greg is the only one who considers him a friend. John hates him.

' _I'm not ashamed that I missed you, Sherlock_ ' Greg had said.

Greg isn't ashamed to miss him. To even  _tell_ him that. Someone missed him. Someone isn't ashamed of him... and he's Sherlock Freak Holmes.

Greg even said his name... Greg barely says his name. He was often called "Holmes." He's always been Holmes. Just Holmes... or mate... or hey... or something... Never Sherlock. Greg is the third person to say his name after a year.

But his name was said in a different way this time.

The first person to say his name said it with a tone of disappointment, pity, annoyance, frustration, and commandment. The second person to say his name said it with a tone of anger, and just  _deep_ hatred that will forever shake him to his core. He doesn't even want to remember it. The first time he hears John say his name after a year, and it's in anger and hatred. He already has enough of that from himself.

It would appear that no matter what he does, John's hatred for him will forever haunt him. It eats him alive. It breaks him to pieces and then glues him up all over again so he'd be torn to pieces once more. The cycle turns again and again and again. He hates it.

* * *

He leaves Baker Street after a few more cups of tea and some chatting with Mrs Hudson. He frowns at the fact that Mrs Hudson doesn't know where Sherlock is. Sherlock often goes to Baker Street, especially on weekends. 

It's a Saturday!

Seeing as he has no other way, he grabs his phone and finds Mycroft's old texts, giving him their address. He hails a can and tells the cabbie the address and off they go.

He looks outside of the can instead of the empty seat beside him. It is completely lonely to go inside a cab without company. Not wanting the feeling of loneliness creeping inside him, he dials Mary's number. She picks up fairly quickly.

"So, how did it go?" her genuinely concerned voice asks in his ear.

"I haven't seen him yet."

"What? Where have you been all this time?"

"Baker Street with Mrs Hudson. I tried to ask her but she didn't know."

He hears Mary sigh. "That doesn't sound good."

"No, it isn't. I'm going to the Holmeses."

"What?"

"To Sherlock's place."

"And why didn't you go there in the first place?"

"Sherlock often told me that he hangs around Baker Street more often than his own house. I figured that it might be because his whole family is as barmy as he is and he can't compete in a Holmes Family Berk-Off," John laughs to himself.

"Hmm... Where does he live anyway?"

"I don't know the place but Mycroft gave me their address in case of emergency."

"Emergency?"

"Probably in case I found him and he's all wounded or something... or non-compliant to go home."

"Ahhh... I see..." A pause. "Are you okay?"

He laughs. "What kind of question is that? Yes, of course, I'm okay."

"Well, you  _are_ seeing Sherlock days after he reappeared."

"Right... Well, I'm more mentally prepared this time."

"Hey, I never really got to know what you wanted to tell me, you know."

' _Shit, really?_ ' He thinks. "I'll tell you next time."

"Oh no, John! Don't tell me you're pregnant! Fuck!"

He laughs. "You and your dirty mouth will be sorry next time we see each other."

"Is that a threat?"

"Maybe."

The cabbie cuts him off. "We're here."

"Okay," he tells the cabbie and goes back on his phone. "Right. I have to go. I'm here at-" he asks the cabbie with a look and the cabbie points at this goddamn humongous house. "...Holy shit."

"What?"

"This is not a bloody house. This is a fucking castle."

"What?'

"I'll send you a photograph later. I have to do this, okay? Bye, Mary."

"Good luck, John."

"Thanks." He hangs up and pays the cabbie.

As the cab drives off, he stands in front of the gates of this damn palace. ' _My god! Why hasn't Sherlock let him in his place before?_ ' Oh how he'd love to hang out in that paradise.

* * *

Siger keeps pushing him. His legs are jelly. He can't walk normally. After that call with Greg, Violet found him on his phone and instantly thought that he was asking for help or something of the sort. She slapped him twice and pushed him around. Violet's push on him was strong, he didn't have time to think before he hit the pillar with the back of his head and had gotten dizzy and fell on the ground.

He heard shouting, then he feels someone kicking him. Someone stomped on his leg so hard once that if he added a little more force on his stomp, Siger could have cut his Tibia in half. 

When he was yelled at to stand, he limps and his father grows tired of his slow walking and kept pushing him to move faster. Siger yells at him, threats him, and then doing exactly what he threatened to do.

He hates his life.

* * *

He walks through this gigantic front garden when the nearby housekeeper let him in. All he head to do is text Mycroft and the housekeeper was called and told to let him in.

The place looks amazing. He'd love to just lie on the perfectly cut grass and do nothing at all. He'd love to hang out here with Sherlock. Although, he is a bit scared to meet Sherlock's parents. If they're anything like Sherlock and Mycroft, all deductive and what-not... He doesn't want to go through listening to his whole life-story again. Though Mycroft and Sherlock seem to be good people when you squint just a tiny bit and focus on the spot beyond the manipulations and harsh words.

They don't show it, but they are. Good people, that is.

So their parents must be the same, right?

* * *

He composes himself, breathing heavily on the stairs. He just got thrown at the wall and kicked in the guts. A few more seconds and he'll be fine. He's used to this.

* * *

He finally reaches the beautiful doors of this magnificent manor. ' _Why didn't Sherlock ever tell me that he is_ this  _rich... I mean, he knows Sherlock and Mycroft are rich, but to this extent?! Oh shit, what if I'm in the wrong house?... Oh... there it is... "Holmes Manor'".._ '

He hesitates. He's about to knock on the door but his fist is still in mid-air as he tries to find the courage to knock on the door.

* * *

He's calm now, which makes him feel the pain... but, at least, he's not having a panic attack or is in shock. Goodness knows he must have died a thousand times already if he didn't know how to calm himself before the shock takes over.

* * *

Putting his hand down, he knows his fist might betray him enough that he'd knock too gently as to not be heard. He knows he will reason to himself that no one is in home if they didn't hear his too-quiet knock. And so...

He rings the doorbell.

* * *

He looks up at the door, which is directly in front of the stairs.

Someone is ringing the doorbell.

 


	15. The Holmeses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! You thought I was going to cliff-hang you all, didn't you? Don't worry, my dears. I spoil my readers, but I shall also make you suffer as I laugh evilly on my computer desk.
> 
> But seriously though, thank you all so much for taking the time to read this. I appreciate it so much!

Who could be outside the house? His parents didn't inform him of -  _ **RING**_ \- visitors. They always tell him when they do, so he'd know what to do in advance, like how to act, what to say, and where to go. Sometimes he'd have to make appearances since they are -  _ **RING**_ \- aware of his existence. Sometimes he has to pretend he doesn't exist (which is easier). What if it's the police, though? Oh god, did he finally get -  _ **RING**_ \- caught with the drugs? What if it's Mycroft's men about to take -  _ **RINGGG**_ \- him to Rehabilitation?!?! Oh god what if it's -  _ **RINGGGGG!!!!!!**_

"GET THE DOOR!" Siger yells.

' _I'm going to get seriously beaten up tonight, aren't I?_ '

Most of his parents' staff has the month off save for gardeners, cooks, and some who knows how to do first-aid. His parents had paid and blackmailed the staff a bit to keep their mouths shut and ignore him under no circumstances. The staff agrees with this arrangement. It's not hard to dislike him anyway.

Without the butler, he sighs, standing up and limps to the front door in front of him. He wraps an arm around his body, the other hand steadying him on the wall. Not that he needs it, but he doesn't want to get easily exhausted. He prepares himself to pretend that nothing is wrong. He's used with that level of acting. He wills himself to forget the pain in his legs and his legs start to numb at his mind-over-matter technique.

He holds the door handle and breathes in the pain, sucks it in, and absorbs it in his body. He prepares himself for the worst. Whoever is on the other side of that door might be anyone he doesn't want to see. He opens the door, looking down for preparation.

He breathes and looks up at the unknown visitor.

_**BLANK.** _

* * *

He waits for a while. Nothing. No one is responding. He rings the door bell again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

' _Brilliant,_ ' he thinks to himself. He checks his phone. He's in the right address, especially since there is a gold sign at the side of the door with the words 'Holmes Manor' on it.

He rings it again. 

' _Maybe no one's home?_ ' But the gardener let him in, which would mean that someone is definitely home. He also notices some small details like small footprints or movement on the floor that indicates someone coming in, and not coming out of the house. ' _Fuck, I'm becoming like Sherlock._ '

He rings it once more.

The house is fucking gigantic. He already took a photograph of it whilst walking towards the said manor, admiring the place. Perhaps no one can hear him.

He rings it longer as his patience gets shorter.

As no one seems to be noticing his presence, he rings it in the most impatient way possible. He's about to give up and walk away when he hears someone shouting inside. A male's voice. He's uncertain if the person is shouting at him or someone else.

His thought stops when he hears the door click open. A pause. Then an exhausted person, who is looking down, stands before him.

The head rises and those eyes reach him and look at him in surprise.

* * *

' _John's here! He's here! You're here! You're here? Why? Why are you here, John?! Why?! Oh wait, I'm only saying these things in my mind._ ' The sudden thought that perhaps John isn't finished beating him up comes. He winces. Beating him up? He isn't some victim.

He looks up again. John is smiling.

' _Probably the thought of strangling me excites him?_ ' He gives John his most unemotional face, which is hard to do because his body and his mind are threatening to break him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks with fake-sharpness and fake-annoyance.

"I... er..." John clears his throat and straightens himself up. "I came to see how you are."

His mind goes to his father and mother immediately as John says the last word. He should be peacefully unconscious on the floor right now if it wasn't for John's sudden appearance. He won't even give Sherlock the privilege of being unconscious or in a coma. Though John beating him up might give him the coma he deserves and wants.

"I'm doing well." He rolls his eyes as he answers.

* * *

' _I don't believe a word you say._ '

Sherlock looks exhausted, he can tell. He even seems unusually uncomfortable and doesn't seem to know what to do. He's never seen Sherlock like this before. He doesn't know how to help a clearly uncomfortable Sherlock. He can easily see right through Sherlock's fake unemotional mask better than ever before. He wonders why Sherlock is gripping the door handle tightly. Too tightly that his knuckles had already turned white.

Sherlock might not realise it but he is more open than a book.

"Are you okay?" he asks. ' _You don't need to answer that, Sherlock. The bags under your eyes already tell the story._ '

"Yes," Sherlock answers firmly.

He looks at Sherlock again, up and down. His legs are trembling beneath him and his now gripping the handle like a lifeline.

Before he asks Sherlock what the hell is wrong and hopes that Sherlock actually  _answers_ this time, a woman's voice cuts him off.

"Sweetie, where are your manners? Let him in." The voice sounds incredibly kind and sweet. It reminds him of Mrs Hudson except years younger. Unfortunately, Sherlock is blocking the door and so he was not able to see to whom the voice belongs to.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder for a moment before he sighs. "Right." He opens the door wider and gestures for John to enter.

"Thank you," he tells Sherlock who nods at him in reply. He shrugs his coat off and Sherlock gets it from him harshly as if he is a man on a mission. He hangs it on the coat rack. He observes Sherlock. He can see how horribly stiff Sherlock is with his movements.

"Sitting room. First door on the left," Sherlock suddenly says out loud, with his back still facing him. He doesn't want to see Sherlock still struggling on putting his coat on the coat rack. He wants to help him but he knows Sherlock's ego and he would want to do this by himself.

He turns around to go to the sitting room.

' _Holy fuck._ '

The corridor looks like it's been taken from the Buckingham Palace. He takes a photo of it as if he is some tourist and sends it to Mary. 

He enters the sitting room. There is a fireplace on his left. A couch faces the fireplace and an armchair on each side. Above the fireplace is a large television. There's only one painting in the whole room, which is behind the couch. It's huge. He walks over to it, suddenly feeling fascinated with it.

' _My God!_ ' It is a magnificent view and it is beautiful. It seems to be a cottage near the seaside. He can see the beautiful move of the waves and wonders to himself if the painting is moving. He looks at the artist's signature.

"Violet Holmes," he whispers to himself as he reads.

"Oh, hello, dear." He turns around on his place to see the woman who owned the voice earlier smiling at him. He smiles back at her as she places a tray with tea and biscuits on the table in front of the couch. She has dark-brown hair with perfect natural curls flowing down her shoulders. "Are you a friend of Sherlock's?"

She stands up gracefully and smiles once more. He's more intrigued with her eyes. They're exactly the same pale colour as Sherlock's.

"Oh right," he mutters to himself before walking towards her and shaking her hand politely. "Hello, er... I'm John... and er, yes, I'm his friend." He laughs awkwardly.

"A pleasure. I'm Violet Holmes. I apologise for the behaviour of my son," Mrs Holmes smiles.

' _Wait. This woman is Sherlock's mother?! But she looks like she's in her thirties!!_ ' He smiles back at her and then he looks at the painting again. ' _Wait? She's Violet Holmes? She painted this son of a bitch called a painting?!_ '

"Your work, Mrs Holmes?" he asks her.

"Indeed, it is." Mrs Holmes stands beside him, both looking at the painting. "It's the view outside of one of our houses in Sussex Downs. So many memories."

"Wow," he exclaims dumbly. ' _She may not be a Holmes by blood but she is definitely a Holmes._ '

Mrs Holmes's head suddenly snaps around which causes him to turn around himself. Sherlock leans by the door way, hands in his pockets.

"I thought I heard your footsteps," Mrs Holmes tells Sherlock.

' _What the fuck? I didn't even hear anything._ '

Mrs Holmes walks towards Sherlock and whispers in his ear. Sherlock stands up straight and he sees Sherlock nodding. "Okay... Okay... Yes... Alright, mummy..." Sherlock mutters, blushing. He chuckles to himself at the sight of Sherlock and Mrs Holmes.

Mrs Holmes smiles at Sherlock, pats his head, and kisses his forehead. "I'm going to get Sherlock's father so he'd meet you, John. Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs Holmes. Thank you for the tea." He gives his best smile at Mrs Holmes and she leaves with a smile.

He looks at Sherlock who is frozen on the spot and scowling. He looks as if he just experienced something horrible. He chuckles. ' _Probably embarrassed that I just witnessed him being the momma's boy that I knew he always was._ '

* * *

He enters the room. John and his mother are both standing in front of her painting. John looks incredibly impressed and so he smiles to himself. He guesses he could give his mother some credit. He leans on the doorway, his legs still not functioning properly. Violet turns sharply and looks at him. John follows her gaze.

"I thought I heard your footsteps," she says. 

John looks at his mother with a very confused and awestricken look. He tries to look indifferent and bored despite the pain. Violet walks up to him and gives him a look that screams:  _Good posture, you no good son of mine. You're embarrassing me with your posture_. He stands up straight and sees Violet nod at him - a nod invisible to non-Holmeses.

She looks at him and whispers. "Now, don't embarrass this family or I will slap the living daylights out of you."

"Okay..."

"Don't you even dare ask him for help because otherwise, I might have to kill you myself..."

"Okay..."

"I don't want a single drop of tea spilled. Now, I want you to say 'Yes' in a very affectionate manner from a son to a mother."

"Yes..." he says it in the way his mother told him to.

"Don't forget to call your father 'Dad' when he comes in this room. Now, call me 'Mummy' and smile like you're tired of listening to my concern but you're grateful that I still do it."

"Alright, mummy," he sighs annoyingly and then smiles in the most affectionate way - the kind his mother won't see but John will.

"Did you do it?" Violet asks him with threat and he hums quietly in answer.

Violet looks at him, pats his head, and kisses him on the forehead.

His mind breaks.

He feels like someone just broke his dignity. She went too far. How dare she kiss him on the forehead? Doing that overly motherly act at him which she always does to Mycroft and never to him is unforgivable. How dare she do something he always wanted her to do ever since he was little? How dare she uses that act solely just to keep up appearances. How dare she? How dare she hit and slap him and then give him a few glimpse of how gentle she could be and never do it to her? Her slaps are nothing compared with this hollow motherly kiss. The kiss on the forehead felt so real and wrong at the same time.

He sees his mother and John share a smile and it makes him want to vomit. How dare she? How dare she smile at John? How dare she even interact with him? Seeing John smile back to his mother is even worse. ' _No, John. You don't know who she really is!_ ' It's disgusting.

"I knew you are a momma's boy." John's words snaps him back to reality. They are alone now. He didn't even feel her leave. He looks at John who is now sitting on the couch.

"Oh you have no idea," he answers and John laughs. ' _This is a good start. He is laughing._ ' He missed hearing that laugh. He sits down on one of the armchairs.

"Nice place you have."

' _Oh I wouldn't exactly call it nice._ ' He shrugs. "It's okay."

"O-? Okay?!" John scoffs. "This is a motherfucking paradise."

Sherlock chuckles internally. "Language, John."

"And your mum's a goddamn Da Vinci with that." John points at the painting behind him with his thumb.

"That she is," he admits.

"What about your dad?" John asks.

"He's upstairs," he replies.

"Actually, I'm right here." Siger says by the doorway, waving.

' _Fuck._ '

* * *

"Actually, I'm right here." A man who looks like Sherlock is standing by the doorway, waving at them with his hand. He and Sherlock stand up at his presence.

' _This is Sherlock's dad!? He looks like he's also in his thirties! The fuck is this family with breaking the laws of aging?!_ '

Mr Holmes walks up to them and reaches for his hand. "I'm Siger Holmes."

"Er, John Watson, sir. Yes, hi." He shakes Mr Holmes's hand.

Mr Holmes gives him a smile that looks extremely like Sherlock's. "Pleasure to meet you, future-doctor Watson." Siger grins at him, nodding in approval and admiration.

"Dad, stop deducing John," Sherlock suddenly says. Siger looks at Sherlock and laughs, Sherlock chuckling with him. The telephone suddenly rings and Sherlock immediately goes over there.

"So, how are you boys doing?" Mr Holmes asks him as they both sit down with Mr Holmes sitting by one of the armchairs and him on the couch.

"We're both fine, Mr Holmes. You have an amazing place." He smiles.

"Dad?" Sherlock asks and Mr Holmes hums in question. "Dad, it's for you."

"Thanks m'boy." Sherlock gives him the phone and sits on the couch beside him. The two keep silent as Mr Holmes listens to the man on the phone.

"Wanna see the magic unfold?" Sherlock whispers at him. He looks at Sherlock, confused. "Any second now..." Sherlock's eyes are fixed on his father and so he keeps his eyes on Mr Holmes, who is standing with his back facing them, instead.

"Say that again," Siger commands on the phone, harshly. "No. Cancel it. It's not as important as it sounds, Carter... _No_... It's none of your business, Carter. It's mine and I'm telling you to cancel that meeting at once... I don't  _care_ how important he is. I do not wish to speak to him with that attitude of his... Do it or you're fired." Mr Holmes hangs up.

The man turns around at them with the ' _I am in love with my family and no one can tell me otherwise_ ' eyes unlike the ' _I am the boos and I will kill you if you disobey me_ ' eyes he briefly saw earlier.

"Sorry you had to see that, boys," he tells them.

Sherlock chuckles. "It's fine, dad. Now, may you please leave? I wish to speak with John Watson alone. Please?"

' _What the fuck?_ ' Sherlock just begged thrice. He remembers Sherlock's own words a year ago. " _I'd rather kill myself before I beg for mercy,_ " and here he is, breaking his own words. ' _Or maybe it's an act for his parents? Pretending to be the good kid, like all kids do._ ' That does make sense.

Mr Holmes nods and leaves.

They're alone.

Shit.


	16. Unwanted Emotions

Sherlock sighs beside him, dropping his head, before deciding to look in front of the window. He looks at the teen uncomfortably, not really knowing how to start. Looking at the door where Sherlock's dad had just left, he thinks, ' _Sherlock's parents... Who would've thought?_ ' Sherlock's mum and dad. The two Holmeses he had never met before today.

He looks at Sherlock who is the result of those two kind people. It is no doubt that Siger and Violet Holmes are geniuses in many aspects (art, business, intelligent in general). Looking at Sherlock now, he couldn't understand how he would get... like this. A confused, emotionally closed-off teen. His thoughts turn and turn with Sherlock and his parents. An endless analysis.

That is... when a thought comes across his mind.

"Did they know too-?" he asks. Sherlock hums in question, suddenly interested on the window's question. ' _He looks guiltily apprehensive._ ' He continues, "-that you spent one year playing hide and seek?"

Sherlock licks his lip, looking down on his hands which are twirling the curtains. "...Maybe..."

"So _THAT'S_ why they didn't report you missing!" he exclaims, trying hard not to show his anger by trying to make it sound like he is amused at himself for finding things out.

"Sorry! Sorry again!" Sherlock exclaims, flailing his arms. He tries to conceal his anger by standing up and looking at Mrs Holmes's painting instead. "Sorry..." he hears Sherlock say behind him.

He's never heard that tone of Sherlock's before. He looks at Sherlock in surprise for a second. The said teen is looking at him with his head down, looking like a kicked puppy. That's not how Sherlock should be. Despite Sherlock probably feeling a bit sorry, he is still not ready to forgive him for not telling him, for abandoning him, for ignoring him, for rejecting his apologies. He shakes his head.

He changes the subject instead - wanting to focus on Sherlock and Sherlock's parents. Sherlock who looks like his father but has his mother's eyes. He chuckles to himself. ' _The bloody tosser is a Potter._ '

"I should call you Harry," he tells Sherlock as he sits down on one of the armchairs beside the sofa, in front of the fire.

Sherlock turns his head to look at him confusedly, tilting it. "Sorry, what? Harry? Like your sister?"

He chuckles to himself. "You have your father's face and your mother's eyes." He laughs at the confused look on Sherlock's face.

"A fine observation but how does that link to you calling me Harry?" Sherlock asks.

"It's a perfect name for you!"

* * *

He panics at what John had just said. Does John actually believe that Harry is the perfect name for him?

Harry - John's drunk older sister? The one who should be close to him but he detests her? Avoids her? Doesn't want to do anything with her? And she with him? Does Harry being drunk symbolises his drug addiction? Oh no! Does John know about that!?!? No wonder!

"John?" he asks nervously.

"Yes, chosen one?" John asks.

"D-do you really want to call me Harry?"

* * *

He sees Sherlock's shoulders sag in submission, as if defeated. He sobers up in an instant. He isn't surprised that Sherlock does not know who Harry Potter is but... to see him be worried and defeated by something so simple...

"Is it bad?" he asks.

"No! No!" Sherlock immediately says. "Call me what you want. But to name me after your sister?"

"Oh? Oh! You thought Harry as in Harriet Watson? No! I meant Harry, you know. Harry Potter. Skinny lanky teen who has his father's face and mother's eyes. Reminds me of you. I'm just referencing it."

"Ohhh..." Sherlock nods.

* * *

"Oh yes, it makes sense now," he tells John, thinking deeply.

"Oh? You know Harry Potter?" John asks in surprise.

"It was read to me as a child," he answers, looking out of the window. 

"By your mum?" he was asked.

Looking out of the window, he sees a much younger version of himself and Mycroft sitting by the tree. Mycroft is reading Harry Potter for a class project. It wasn't hard to convince Mycroft to read it to him. It was one of his few good memories. There wasn't much drama at the time. Of course, he loved the series before he discovered pirates. With both obsessions, Mycroft received an unfortunate responsibility of being his arch-enemy. Dying by a magic spell and dying by being stabbed by a sword.

"No, by My- yeah, yeah _my_ mum," he answers, thanking goodness Mycroft's name's first syllable is 'my.'

"Must be nice," John replies, smiling but then his eyes glaze on its own. He looks at John with worry before remembering that John, though not neglected, still lacked attention from his parents because they are both too busy.

"Yeah." He agrees with John.

* * *

He watches as Sherlock move over to him, cautiously manoeuvring himself in a very gentle and slow manner. He does not understand. Sherlock doesn't care about being careful when it comes to furniture. Why is he being cautious in his own home instead of being more careless?

' _Probably cares about his OWN house and not others'. Probably may also be trying to impress his parents._ '

He chuckles.

"What?" Sherlock asks, looking at him. He notices that Sherlock even unbuttons his suit jacket before sitting down on the armchair in front of him. ' _Well-mannered gentlemanly son of a bitch._ ' 

"Nothing. You're just an attention-seeking baby," he answers, chuckling.

"Oh, they give me attention alright," Sherlock laughs and he joins.

For a moment, he feels the familiar warmth like he always had when they were in Baker Street... That is, before Sherlock left and lied to him for a year. He pushes down his oncoming anger.

"...So..." Sherlock starts.

"...So?" he asks.

Sherlock sighs. "Why are you here?" he asks quietly.

' _Oh. Right._ ' Why did he come to Sherlock's place after a long time of non-communication? Indeed, he does not have a reason.

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

"Then what is the point of coming here?" Sherlock asks. He feels that Sherlock thinks of him as a bother.

"I don't know."

"Well, that is one  _swell_ of a point," Sherlock says sarcastically with a sarcastic smile and a sarcastic wave of his sarcastic hand. He just wants to tackle Sherlock to the ground again. He is being tested and he feels like he might fail.

" _Look_. I don't know  _why_ I am here, alright? I just  _am_." He shrugs.

"Right," Sherlock nods angrily. ' _Is that even possible?_ ' he thinks to himself, watching as Sherlock looks at his own hand on the arm of his chair, tapping on it, clearly annoyed with him.

"He sighs and stands up. "Alright, if you don't want me here-"

"Don't," Sherlock half-yells, angry. The said teen is pointing at him with his hand though his eyes are still stuck on his other hand which is still resting on the arm of the chair. "Just don't." Now, Sherlock is looking at the ground, closing his eyes and opens them again and sighs. Sherlock points at the chair he was sitting on. "Sit."

"Are you ordering me to sit?" he snaps. Sherlock's hands now rest on the arms of the chair and slowly raises his eyes towards his.

"I'm asking you to sit."

"No."

"Are you not going to ask why I rudely shooed away my own father to talk to you in private?"

He clears his throat and lowers his head to compose himself, clenching his hands on his sides. "Alright then." He sits down on the chair as if he's being forced to do so. He gestures towards Sherlock. "Talk." He is pissed off but a little voice in his head is saying that he doesn't want Sherlock to know how curious and drawn he is to him and is also chastising him on why he has to have a man's ego, and that he is using anger as a defence mechanism against human emotions.

Sherlock sighs. "Well, I never had time to explain myself to you."

"Ahuh," he mutters. ' _Probably because you said I bother you._ '

"I didn't contact you when I left be... cause... because..." Sherlock licks his lips as if trying to think of what to say.

"Because...?" he presses on, wishing that Sherlock won't lie.

"Because..." Sherlock sucks in a breath. "Because I didn't want to be found."

"Didn't want to be found?" he asks. He looks at Sherlock curiously.

"That's what I said, yes."

"Why didn't you want to be found?" he asks, rolling his eyes, annoyed at Sherlock not understanding that he needs more explanation.

Sherlock sighs. Sherlock's been doing that a lot lately - sighing. "Because I had to die."

"...Sorry what?"

"I said I had to die."

"Yes, I heard that. Why? Why _did_ you have to die?"

"I have made a considerable amount of... enemies."

"Enemies? Who? Your bullies? _Enemies_ ," he scoffs the last word. "That's too dramatic even for you. Sorry, Sherlock, but that's not a reasonable or good enough excuse to disappear for a whole year without saying anything," he snaps.

Sherlock stares at him, not moving, not even blinking.

* * *

"Enemies? Who? Your bullies? _Enemies_ ," John scoffs the last word. "That's too dramatic even for you. Sorry, Sherlock, but that's not a reasonable or good enough excuse to disappear for a whole year without saying anything," John snaps at him. 

He stares at John, not moving. There's the word.  _Bullies_. He goes through his mind to remember the meaning of the word. The exact words he read in a book when he was younger, when he was already encountering such people.

> **Bully (n.)  
>  ** **Plural: Bullies  
>  ** **1\. A person who uses strength or power to harm or intimidate those who are weaker.**

No. He absolutely does  _not_ have bullies. He isn't weak. He knows he is stronger than any of those... those... sadists. They're sadists, yes. Not in the sexual way, thank goodness. No. They're sadistic enough to love seeing him get hurt. Only him. That's what he'd call them - sadists - not bullies. He refuses to believe that they are the bullies and he, the bullyee. 

' _That's what you are, aren't you?_ ' he removes the voice in his head. John's voice.

' _Removing John's voice in your head because you can't take a few words? That is weak,_ ' his own voice says in his brain and he growls in frustration. ' _ **Shut up. Be quiet.**  _ _No, you_  are _weak. I am_ your  _voice and I am telling you that you. are. weak. **NO SHUT UP!** I am just telling you the truth and what you believe in. **BE QUIET!** And yet you stay listening to me._ '

"-you are? Didn't even bother to give me a note, at least." John's voice snaps him out from the inner battle he has in his brain.

"No, I didn't."

"Oh so now you're talking? Alright." John claps his hand mockingly.

' _Why is John suddenly_ this  _angry?_ '

"Let's hear it. Why didn't you give me a simple enough text to - Oh, I don't know - tell me you're okay? Hmm? Okay, let's start with that."

' _I was too high to talk to you. I couldn't do that to you._ ' "I had to." One glare from John and he quickly adds, "People are watching me, John."

"People of high positions are watching a teenage boy? Yes, that's _really true_. You know what? I don't care anymore. I don't care why you had to leave. I just want to know why you never told me. Why, Sherlock?"

He sighs. "I told you. I don't want to be found."

"So you couldn't have just told me not to find you in a text or a note or _something_?"

"Because either way, you'd still try to find me."

John glares at him angrily, and in shock - the same way John looked at him when he surprised him with his presence at the restaurant.

"And exactly _why_ would you think I'd even try to find you?"

That stings but he doesn't show it. He tries to resolve this situation in a very calm manner. Should he try to switch on his machine-mode? It would certainly stop him from leaving the room and smashing everything in his path. Especially when he has an answer to John's question:

' _I would have done everything in my power to find you,_ ' because he thought John would do the same. Apparently not.

"Your morality," he starts. "And the fact that we have seen each other for almost a year, that would make you think of the right thing to do. You've met me and had been in my company for a long time. I disappear. I give you a mysterious note. You'd do your best to get to the bottom of this because you're John Watson. You help people, especially those you already know."

"Huh."

John leans back on the armchair and looks at him, still angry. Others might think it's a simple stare but he is certain,  _very certain_ , that those are eyes of a person who could murder someone with a snap of his hand. He doesn't want to know what John could do if he is ever pushed to his limit.

"I don't want to listen to your lies, Sherlock. You're thinking of yourself. You used me, pretended to befriend me, lied to me..." John shakes his head. "You're just a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine, aren't you?"

He's been stabbed a lot of times in the few years of his existence. He's been burnt by his own parents. He's been thrown, almost drowned, at an inch to his death, punched, kicked, choked, tortured, beaten up, mocked, humiliated, laughed at, overdosed, and so much more. But nothing...  _nothing_... hurts more than this. It cannot even be compared by this.

He sighs, starting to feel dizzy with unwanted emotions in his mind. He hates unwelcome and unwanted emotions. He did not ask for them.

"John," he chokes.

* * *

**WHILE SHERLOCK WAS  
ARGUING WITH HIMSELF**

He is still staring at him. He is more pissed off with the fact that Sherlock just went to his fucking Mind Palace while they're in the middle of a conversation.

"This is _exactly_ why I am annoyed with you, you know? I am trying to talk to you and you disregard me every time. I am always ignored and forgotten in the side lines. Don't you forget which of us is more physically capable than the other. I am not an idiot, nor am I mentally average. Now, you're just sitting there, wandering around your own head while I'm talking to you. I'll tell you what I think. I came here to see you because I thought I was ready to forgive you and I wanted to see if you're okay. You are _still_ lying to me, Sherlock. I know you're not okay! I can see you perf-"

"Shut up. Be quiet," Sherlock suddenly mutters. 

He looks at Sherlock who is looking at the ground. "Did you just shut me up?! So you _have_ been listening, huh? You are  _not_ in your Mind Palace all this time? Fine! I'm so fed up with you! I want to let you hear that I want to forgive you but you're making me keep quiet?! You're a bloody moron! You leave the world and come back to it like it's nothing. You're careless, then. For a genius, you don't think properly. You probably didn't even care enough about how we'd feel when you-"

"NO SHUT UP!"

"FUCK YOU, SHERLOCK! Don't yell at me, you shit! I'm not even saying my worse. I swear you would want to be drugging yourself up again if you continue this-"

"BE QUIET!"

"Sherlock, you _fucking machine_. You _left_ everyone.  _Left me_. I was your best friend. I thought you were my best friend. I sound like a fucking five-year old, but it's true. God. The nerve you have. Showing yourself up like this. Who do you even think you are? Didn't even bother to give me a note, at least."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh so now you're talking? Alright." He claps his hand mockingly. "Let's hear it. Why didn't you give me a simple enough text to - Oh, I don't know - tell me you're okay? Hmm? Okay, let's start with that."

"I had to." Sherlock shrugs and so he glares at him. "People are watching me, John."

"People of high positions are watching a teenage boy? Yes, that's _really true_. You know what? I don't care anymore. I don't care why you had to leave. I just want to know why you never told me. Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighs, looking annoyed. "I told you. I don't want to be found."

"So you couldn't have just told me not to find you in a text or a note or _something_?"

"Because either way, you'd still try to find me."

' _Oh! Now that's a bloody good answer! The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock. You think that if you disappeared that I'd find you like a dog trying to find its master? Is that what I am to you? Is that what I have been to you all this time? A fucking dog?_ ' He looks at Sherlock as he thinks this. He notices Sherlock swallow.

"And exactly _why_ would you think I'd even try to find you?" he dares ask through gritted teeth. ' _Calm down, Watson. Calm down. Don't kill Sherlock yet._ '

Sherlock tilts his head at him, looks at the ground, raises his head a little, breathes in, and stares at him. Sherlock's face is purely blank. "Your morality," he starts. "And the fact that we have seen each other for almost a year, that would make you think of the right thing to do. You've met me and had been my companion for a long time. I disappear. I give you a mysterious note. You'd do your best to get to the bottom of this because you're John Watson. You help people, especially those you already know."

"Huh."

He sighs, leaning back on the armchair. ' _So Sherlock's blaming me now? And "companion"!??! COMPANION!!?!? JUST A MOTHERFUCKING COMPANION!?!?! So after all this time I've been trying to be your best friend and I've been treating you as mine, when in reality, I'm just a bloody companion, an acquaintance? I knew it! I was treated like a fucking dog. Good ol' companion, am I?_ '

"I don't want to listen to your lies, Sherlock. You're thinking of yourself. You used me, pretended to befriend me, lied to me..." John shakes his head. "You're just a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked like someone had just shot a gun at him. No. Sherlock looks much worse. Sherlock looks absolutely mortified, horrified, petrified.

"John," Sherlock chokes.


	17. Completely Cold

"John," Sherlock whispers.

Somehow, this only made him angrier. Sherlock's look at him makes him even more furious than it should have had. Standing up, he goes behind the chair he was sitting on and leans on it to be the "bigger guy" as he looks down on Sherlock. The said teen seems to be sitting on the edge of his seat with his hands clasped together, elbows resting on both knees, head down.

"John, I-"

"What?" he snaps at Sherlock.

Looking up at him, Sherlock stares at him with cold eyes. "It would seem that your words are getting less and less inventive as time moves forward. I certainly applaud your creativity with words the last time we talked face-to-face which would be a year ago. Had you been spending too much time with people with low IQs all this time? How horrible." 

Sherlock leans back to the back of the chair, doing the deduction position. ' _Oh no. He's going to be insufferable on purpose._ '

"Don't fucking deduce me, Sherlock." He glares at him.

"I never knew it was not allowed."

"I don't like it, so. don't. fucking. do. it," he says through gritted teeth. Sherlock only looks at him with confused eyes, tilting his head in the progress. It seems like Sherlock is looking at him like he is the alien. "Don't look at me like that! You know what? Sherlock? I'm done. I am done with this." He sighs and gives up. "I can't go on like this. You are being difficult and it is affecting me negatively. This is not what I had planned and I certainly did not want this to happen. You are being insufferable and I just want to wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze the life out of you."

"I doubt you can do that. Like I said, you have good morals and it would pre-"

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear you deduce me any further! Can't you understand anything I say!? I don't want you to deduce me because it would drive me insane and it won't be a pretty sight! Sod this!" He yells at him. "I think they all might be right! I am an idiot! They have all been right! Everyone told me to stay away from you! Everyone told me that you are just a freak! I never stayed away from you because I thought you were not the kind of person they all say! I was wrong! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! No! It revolves around the fucking sun!" he yells.

He thought Sherlock couldn't look as horrified as he did a few moments before. He was wrong. Now, Sherlock looks dead, broken, shattered, destroyed. A dark cloud hovers over Sherlock and it seems to make the teen look completely cold.

* * *

He dies. He just dies. Of course, not in the literal sense, no, but his metaphorical heard shatters and scatters with the wind like dust. This happened before. A year before. John told him everything already. These were John's words the last time they met. They're all the same. He means the same. It kills him. His mind flashes words and he remembers every single word that came out of John's mouth before.

' _I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and tell me what is bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me? You probably don't. Of course not. All you care about is yourself. Well, then, that's good, right? Is that good? You want that from the beginning, don't you? Is that why you isolate yourself? You were never a lonely soul that became friends with a fellow lonely soul, were you? I can't believe how foolish I am to believe a heartless man like you would care about me. Should I leave you with your heartless soul now? I have been offering you my friendship, my trust, and my care but you won't give me yours._ '

' _Is that true friendship? When one benefits from the effort of the other and doesn't do anything else? No. You had insulted me in many ways and you have been throwing away good things in my life. Even simple things like having girlfriends - you made them leave, screaming away when you talk to them. Simple things like having time with my family - you laugh at my family's misfortunes of being addicted to_ something  _but we're happy. It's none of your business if they drink! I had felt only humiliation when you snap at me when you're in one of your dark moods - which is often. Maybe people were right. I should have left you alone from the start and never tried to be friends with you._ '

' _Maybe people were right about how cruel you are, how heartless you are, how selfish you could be. Are they right? About you being this freak of nature? I can't believe how much you deceive me, now that I think about it... because I trust you enough to endanger my life but you don't trust me enough to talk to me, nor at least regard me enough? Am I just a side-kick to you as you play hero? I guess you trust your massive intellect more than me. I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that, right? I should have expected this from the beginning. Well, I suppose this is it. I am severing ties from you, Sherlock. Goodbye._ '

John's words echoes in his brain and he just wants to place his hands over his ears to hide them but he knows the gesture won't work and will only infuriate John further. The words are in his head. The voice is in his head. 

' _You're just a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine, aren't you?_ '

He wants to remove the voices so badly but he knows he can't. They will forever haunt him unless something or someone up there helps him out. He really should have died when his father almost did. Why didn't they continue? Why do they let him continue this torture? He can't do this anymore.

' _I think they all might be right! I am an idiot! They have all been right! Everyone told me to stay away from you! Everyone told me that you are just a freak! I never stayed away from you because I thought you were not the kind of person they all say! I was wrong! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! No! It revolves around the fucking sun!_ '

He closes his eyes as tears are threatening to form and pour from them. He doesn't want John to see them so he keeps his eyes closed. He breathes heavily and when he is sure, perfectly sure he is well-composed, he opens his eyes again, and looks at John.

* * *

He regrets it. He regrets it completely. The look on Sherlock's face adds a weight on his chest that he cannot bare. It sobers him up from the anger he had been feeling for the past days and weeks. Sherlock looks absolutely dead. So unemotional. Completely  _Cold_. He tries to compare the level Sherlock is feeling to the level an ordinary teenager would feel. An ordinary teenager - an adult, even - would probably be yelling, screaming, gross sobbing. Now, here is Sherlock who is just looking at him with very dry intense eyes.

He keeps looking at a very still Sherlock as he sits on the armchair once more, not wanting to be bigger than Sherlock because he isn't. Fuck, what had he been doing?

"Sherlock, I-"

"You're right. I am."

"You're what?" he whispers, startled.

"The narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine," Sherlock replies, looking at him like it is the most obvious answer in the world. ' _Did I really tell him that?_ ' 

"Look, Sherlock, I'm so-"

"Although, I would scratch the comment about my being a machine."

"Oh?" ' _Is he finally going to admit that he's human as well?_ '

Sherlock hums in answer. "Yes, considering that I am not programmed by other human beings, nor do I run from oil or batteries or any form of electricity, that would mean that I'm... _biologically_ and  _anatomically_ human."

' _Not good enough._ ' He sighs. "Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"Not to offend you but according to my observations, humans have the tendency to tell what they really think of a person when they're angry. Their suppressed opinions tend to go out in the open without any filter. No, you did not mean to say what you have said _out loud_ , but you meant what you said," Sherlock explains calmly. "Fascinating creatures - human beings. They're so... human," Sherlock chuckles.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Stop this now," he says threateningly.

"Stop what? I was not aware I have been doing something wrongful other than speaking to you... Oh... Is that what you mean? Is that what you want me to do, then? To stop talking? Alright. You should know that I am used to keeping silent for days on end... I don't know if that bothers you... Anyway, this wouldn't be a probl-"

"Talk to me."

"I thought that is precisely what you don't want me to do?"

"Just... Talk to me." He's getting frustrated and just... helpless.

"I _am_ talking to you."

"No. Really _really_ talk to me."

"I don't understand."

He shifts uncomfortably on his chair. "Sher-"

"Sweetie." He turns to see Mrs Holmes knocking on the door to the living room, looking at Sherlock. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent." She nods once and off she goes. Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes in the process, and stands up, buttoning his suit jacket.

"It appears that I am needed."

Before he says anything, Sherlock leaves the room.

* * *

He tries to control his limping as he walks away. It's still painful but it is bearable. It drains him but fortunately, he doesn't look as awful as he feels. As he closes the door behind him, he looks down the corridor to see his mother looking at him from the door to the library, five doors down. 

Violet gives him a glare and points inside the library and then at the floor which means, ' _Come here at once,_ ' in parents' body language.

When his mother gets inside the library, he finally lets himself wince and sit down on the ground which caused him to fall in the process, thankfully, the carpeted floor softens its sound. He decides to crawl before remembering that John is in the same house. He can't let John see him like this. He will look even more pathetic than he already is. Curse John for coming here unannounced.

He raises his upper body with his elbows and uses the wall to stand himself up before limping (and stumbling) his way to the library. It feels like hours when he reaches the door to the said room. He hesitates to open the door, holding on to the doorknob. He wonders what "lecture" awaits him beyond the door. He breathes to calm himself down and to look "presentable" to Violet.

He opens the door. Immediately, Violet harshly whispers at him, "Where have you been?"

"Outside," he replies. Violet slaps him on the back of his head.

"Don't you dare be cheeky with me, child." He mentally rolls his eyes in answer. "Now, what have you been saying to that John Wilson?"

"Watson," he corrects.

"Irrelevant." Violet slaps him on the back of his head again. "He's been yelling and what have you been shouting back?! What have I told you about shouting at other people? Manners, child! You clearly need them! The poor boy will find out how severely delusional you are and I don't want to be known as the Freak's mother. Keep yourself hidden away and discipline yourself. You thank god that your father had to leave early but that doesn't mean that he won't hear about this. Look at me. You have to _hold yourself together_."

"Alright." 

Violet slaps the bejesus out of him, so hard that the slap echoes in the room.

"Manners." Violet points at him.

He rubs his left cheek. ' _Thank goodness she used her right hand._ ' Looking at his mother's left hand with a ring that has a gigantic diamond on it, he shivers at the thought if his mother ever backhands him.

"I'll go back to the living room in a few moments and pretend to get the tray from you when I check up on you two. You should have redeemed yourself by then. Leave."

He turns around to open the door. As he opens it, his legs shake so hard, he falls on the floor as the door swings open. He hears his mother make a disgusted growl. He stands up on his own and makes another long-time journey from the library to the living room.

* * *

What can he tell Sherlock? Fuck. He fucked up. He wants to apologise to Sherlock and he ends up saying worse things. What kind of a person is he? And people think he is the one who is making Sherlock better than before? Lies.

He quickly whips up his phone just as Sherlock closes the door behind him. He stands up and paces across the room as he waits for the person he is calling to pick up the phone.

" _Hello?_ "

"Greg! It's me!"

" _Yeah, I-_ "

"I'm at Sherlock's and I'm trying to tell him why everything's gone wrong but it's not working. He's being difficult and I-"

" _John, slow done, okay? Alright, good. First of all, Sherlock has always been difficult, mate. That bastard's an annoying dick._ "

"You got that right."

" _That is also why we're his friends because we're little shits like he is._ " He hears Greg sigh. " _Sorry, John. I can't help you. Your... situation... is too complicated for me to handle._ "

"But you should know him, right?"

" _I've known Sherlock for years. Trust me, I still don't know who he is._ "

"Then why do you put up with him?" he asks.

He goes towards the door and looks at the corridor. He sees Sherlock holding the door knob to a door, five doors down, and just staring at his hand on the doorknob for ages. He sees Sherlock sigh and gets in. He closes the door to the living room once more and sits on his chair again, rubbing his face in the process.

" _Because I'm desperate for grades, that's why... and you know? Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one. Come on, John, we're his friends and you know him best._ "

"Yeah, right."

" _I'll see you later, yeah?_ "

"Sure, sure."

" _Are you gonna be alright, mate?_ "

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He hears Greg chuckle. " _You sound like someone I know. Right. Bye, then._ "

"Yeah, bye."

He hangs up and waits for Sherlock. Greg's words echoes in his mind. He feels incredibly guilty. More guilty than he ever was in his life. Sherlock is a great person and he treated him like shit. He sips his tea and waits. He promises to himself that he will tell Sherlock what he really thinks. His phone rings - Mary.

"Hi, Mary."

" _Am I interrupting anything?_ "

"Just my thoughts."

" _So how did it go?_ "

"It's still on-going. His mum just called him."

" _Seriously?_ "

"Yeah. Look, Mary. I don't know what to do. I feel fucking guilty. So much that it's eating me alive. This is worse than I ever felt before."

" _...Why?_ " she asks.

"I've been... shouting at him and I never even got the chance to hear him actually explain himself. When he does, he insults me and tries my patience and I really am trying to push these things away. God, everyone's right. I do have anger issues."

" _Don't you think he's doing those things on purpose?_ "

"Probably. Why?"

" _Because he's pushing you away._ "

"Why would he do that?"

" _Because he cares._ "

"Sherlock? Cares? Please, Mary. Those words never fit in the same sentence and never would."

" _And he knows that you think of him that way._ "

"In what way?"

" _That he doesn't care, and he's using that for your own sake._ "

"So driving me mad and pushing me to my limit means he cares? how the hell does that work, Mary?"

" _He's probably hurt. Did you ever found out what happened to him in his year of disappearance._ "

"Not completely. I just know he solved some crimes, went around places, had fun without me, left me in grief."

" _No details?_ "

"None whatsoever. 'Only lies have details' he once said. I also know that he's keeping a secret from me."

" _Exactly. Don't you see? He doesn't want to lie to you._ "

"I know that! It's driving me insane that he has a need to hide something from me! It- I- I don't- Mary, I don't know what to do." He doesn't realise that tears are starting to form in his eyes. "I don't know what's bothering Sherlock. He's always been like this. Something bothers him and he doesn't want to tell me. Every time I offer help, he blows it back to my face and I get angry and the wheel turns."

" _Oh, John. Both of you are idiots. That's the only conclusion. You're both idiots._ "

"I know." He sighs. "I'll see you later. I'll sort this out. Try to keep my head in the game. It's going to be hard not to yell at someone who knows which buttons to press."

" _You'll do great._ "

"I hope so."

He hangs up. He waits for a few more seconds and a minute later, Sherlock comes in and this time, he actually tries to remove all thoughts from his head and looks at the teen. This time, he does what he did the first time he heard of Sherlock.

He observes him.


	18. He Notices

"Anything wrong?" he asks Sherlock as Sherlock sits on the armchair in front of him.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Sherlock shrugs.

Gone was the rude obnoxious arsehole Sherlock whom he saw ten minutes ago. He sees a teenage boy whose eyes are older than his father's. He sees bags under those old wise eyes. He sees pale greyish sickly tighter skin - even paler than before. Even Sherlock's posture changed. He just looks exhausted. He looks completely worn out. A few moments before, Sherlock look tired. Now, he looks almost ready to pass out.

What did Sherlock do to look like this?

In a minute, a miracle must have happened because Sherlock suddenly look perfectly fine. He sat up straight. He relaxed his pose. He looks fine, but he knows better. Sherlock is pretending to be okay. For the life of him, he doesn't know why. He doesn't want to get angry.

' _Anger dulls one's judgment,_ ' Sherlock had told him a year ago.

He hates the fact that Sherlock is right... again. He focuses on his friend right in front of him once more. With his anger gone, he just notices how Sherlock tries to avoid his gaze as much as possible. He also notices that his guilt over what he has done to Sherlock and why he did it has grown and spread everywhere.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"J-"

"And please...  _please_ don't lie to me," he practically begs.

"I'm okay," Sherlock answers with soft eyes.

"No. You're not."

"John-"

"I have a deal for you, Sherlock."

"A deal?"

"Yes, and I _really_ wish you would say yes."

"Why would I do so?"

"Think of it this way: Say yes and I stay. Say no and I leave forever." He sees Sherlock lick his lips nervously.

"Yes," Sherlock answers instantly and... desperately? ' _No. Impossible... No. Open your eyes, John. He doesn't want you to leave... But this is Sherlock... Exactly._ '

"You don't even know what the proposition is."

"I don't care." Sherlock shrugs.

He sighs, not liking how much Sherlock relies on him. He can't believe- anyway, back to the matter at hand.

"Alright..." he whispers. "Alright," he starts louder. "The deal is: We tell each other the truth and _nothing but the truth_ for twenty-four hours."

Sherlock snorts. "Have you been in a courtroom recently?"

He smiles. "I have been watching a lot of series about lawyers, yes... So, do we have a deal?"

"I already said yes to the agreement anyway, so there is no point in asking me if we have a deal, John." Sherlock shrugs.

"...Yeah, alright... So let me start with..." He lets out a breath. "Sherlock... Are you okay?"

* * *

He had expected that John would have  _that_ for his first question but he still hates that. Why must that be the first question anyway? He looks at John.

* * *

The first thing he notices is that Sherlock hesitated. It surprises him to see Sherlock struggle to find the right answer since he is a person he always has an answer - the right answer. Regardless, the hesitation is the hint on what Sherlock will answer. A person who is truly alright will not take this long to answer such a small question.

Sherlock sighs, licking his lips nervously. "No."

His brow shot upwards in shock that Sherlock actually took the deal seriously. "Why?" he asks.

"Because I am _not_ okay. I will not elaborate further without questions, John. I do not have to explain everything. Unless you ask me, I will not be informative."

' _Oh wow... He IS being honest. Fuck. I better treasure this twenty-four hour arrangement._ '

"Do you still think of me as your friend?" he asks cautiously.

"It depends on you," Sherlock replies.

He blinks a few times at the unexpected answer. "Please explain."

Sherlock leans back on the armchair and stares at one of his hand on the arm of the chair. "...It depends on how _you_ think of me."

"So whatever I think of you, you would reciprocate the sentiment?" he asks and Sherlock's eyes move around before a hesitant nod. "So if you tell you that you're my best friend... what would you think? How will you look at me as?"

Sherlock's head turn at him in surprise when he said the last two sentences. Of course, he mentally rolls his eyes. Sherlock probably knows how hooked he is to him. Sherlock was, is, and always will be like a drug to him... and Sherlock probably knows that.

"Look, Sherlock... There are actually _two_ reasons why I came here to meet with you."

"...Okay..." Sherlock starts. The teen leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, and looks at John intently and seriously.

"One, and the _major_ one, is to talk to you and get you to talk to _me_..."

"...Yes..."

"...and the other one... is to tell you that my parents are having dinner... and they want me to bring two people. They said and I quote, 'Bring both your best woman and your best man'."

"Are you asking me for his number?" Sherlock asks.

He narrows his eyes in confusion. "...Sorry, what? Number? Whose number?"

"Gavin's?"

He sighs. "Who?"

" _Gavin_ Lestrade?"

"What's he got to do with this?"

"He's a man and... good at it?" Sherlock shrugs. He would have laughed if it wasn't for Sherlock's blindness on how much he cares about him. Is this what Sherlock actually thinks? That he is nothing to him? Is this what is really going on?

"It's _Greg_... and  _no_ , he's not my best friend."

"Oh, Mike Stamford, I see... Well, he's nice... though I'm not sure how well he would cope with all-"

"No, Mike's great but _he's_ not my best friend." Sherlock looks at him, tilting his head for answers. "Look Sherlock, my parents are very busy _hard-working_ people, and this is one of the rarest opportunities that I will ever get to sit down with both of them at dinner together with the  _two people_ I love and care about most in the world..."

"Yes..." Sherlock keeps looking at him.

' _What the actual fuck?_ ' It bothers him that Sherlock absolutely has no idea that he is one of those two people. Does Sherlock think of him more lowly and inferior than he thought?

"Mary Morstan..." he starts.

"Yes..."

"And..."

' _Fuck. Bloody hell. This is harder than telling Mary that I love her._ '

"..."

' _Fuck. I should just man up and say it right to his face. What's the worst that could happen?_ '

"...You."

Sherlock blinks a lot of times and stays still.

* * *

He cannot believe it. He just... cannot. John's words echoes in his brain... a lot of times. It seems to have covered everything that John had said in the past. It is as if nothing mattered except what John had just revealed to him.

' _...with the two people I love and care about most in the world... ... ...Mary Morstan and... you._ '

Him. Why him? He is John's best friend? How can John be asking him?!  _HIM_?! Of all people?! This is him, Sherlock Holmes, we are talking about... John is really asking him?.. The Freak?... John thinks of him as a friend.

He tells John how flattered and surprised he is. He tells John that he never expected this kind of request from him... to be with John on a special occasion. He admits that he is a little daunted by the face of it...

"Sherlock?"

He promises John that he would do his very best to accomplish a task which was, for him, as demanding and difficult as any he had ever contemplated. Additionally, he thanks John for the trust he had placed in him and indicated that he was, in some ways, very close to being... moved by it.

"That's getting a bit scary now."

It has now transpired that he had said  _none_ of this out loud.

* * *

Sherlock seems to grow back into the world and finally looks at him normally - as if he is actually present. It was odd to see how shocked Sherlock is that he is his best man for the job with his parents.

"So in fact... you-you mean..."

He narrows his eyes at Sherlock's stuttering. "Yes...?"

"I'm your..." He nods at Sherlock encouragingly, telling him he's right. "...best..."

"...man."  
"...friend?"

Once more, Sherlock surprises him. He thought that Sherlock has always known how hooked he is to him but the look of confusion in his face suggests otherwise. Oh shit, has he really been this dense? Had he really thought that he means nothing to him?

"Of course you are... 'Course... You're my best friend." He smiles reassuringly. Sherlock continues to look at him like he grew three heads. "So... what do you think?"

"I think hearing that sentence is as rare as finding Scandium and Yttrium under my bed."

"What? Why? Sherlock?"

"Because I am, or rather, _was_ no one's best friend."

"You were and _are_ my best friend, Sherlock. Why do you say so?"

"Because I am the most unpleasant... rude... ignorant... and all round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So no, I don't expect you to ask me to join you and your family because I never expect to be anybody's best friend."

Sherlock's voice has changed by the end of his small speech. It seems as if he would have sobbed right there and then but stopped it before it happened. He curses himself. Here he was, telling everybody and anybody near him that Sherlock Holmes was and is his best friend... but he never told his best friend himself that exact thing. He overestimated Sherlock's self-esteem.

"Well, here I am telling you never to _not_ expect that ever again."

Sherlock closes his eyes and looks down, wringing his hands in front of him.

"...Even if I am a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine?"

"I didn't mean that-" Sherlock starts to open his mouth. "No, Sherlock. Let me talk first. Thank you... Like I said... No. I didn't mean that. I got angry and used the words that I know would hit your very core and hurt you loads... Those were words that I would never say to your face and _mean_ them. I used them to hurt you, Sherlock, not define you. I'm sorry for saying that. I don't mean them, not even subconsciously."

Sherlock genuinely smiles a bit for the first time since he came in this house. "Does the same goes about me being cruel, and a... a..." Sherlock clears his throat and straightens his spine. "...being a freak?"

He observes Sherlock who looks like he is preparing for the worst though he is trying not to show it. He seems to be flinching before whatever he is expecting would happen.

"Did I really tell you that?" he asks, horror washing over him like a great storm.

"Twice, yes."

A wave of guilt, shame, and regret overcomes him but he puts on a good face for Sherlock. "Sherlock, I would never... _never_... think of you, or anyone else, as a freak... God, Sherlock...  _No one_ is a freak. We are all creatures and some of us are just more different than others... and that difference is what makes them more remarkable... extraordinary... rare. God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry for hurting you like this. I didn't... I never knew how- I can't believe I would..." He sighs. "I'm _sorry_."

He panics at Sherlock's eyes which tears are threatening to show. Okay... Fuck... Alright, yes... They are visible now - the tears are now falling just as it threatened. Sherlock closes his eyes, sniffs, wipes his tears away quickly, and smiles smugly. It genuinely impressed him how Sherlock can easily stop himself from crying.

He hates why Sherlock would even cry. Didn't Sherlock know how important he is in his life? How much he has changed him?

"So..." He licks his lips nervously. "The dinner?" he asks, trying to change the topic.

"You should ask my parents," Sherlock suddenly replies.

He blinks a few times. "W-what?"

Sherlock sighs. "Ask my parents."

"Why?"

"For permission." Sherlock says it like it is the most obvious answer in the world... which is exceptionally strange.

"Why? You're old enough."

"...Not when I am... grounded... for you know, leaving."

"Ahhh..." John nods. "Wait, why are _you_ asking  _me_ to do it? You can do it yourself."

"They won't react how you'd expect them to."

"How will they react?"

"Surprisingly different. Let's just say that they will agree if _you_ ask them."

' _Only lies have details,_ ' Sherlock's voice enters his head. He had noticed how Sherlock would not give him a direct answer.

"Alright... I'll go ask them now." He stands up and Sherlock follows him. "Where?"

"Back garden, most likely."

"Alright then."

They head on to the back garden.

He walks as Sherlock guides him around the Holmes Manor. Why the hell didn't Sherlock ever let him visit this place? It is grand and amazing and beautiful! Sherlock does not see how lucky he is to live in this kind of place.

"Go straight to this room."

Sherlock points at a room. It is kind of a place to have a grand ball if they were living in the Victorian Era. It is empty right now but it is well-kept. From his own Sherlock-like observation, he'd say that they probably use this room every two days. The chandeliers are high up the ceiling above them but the light comes from the marvellous glass windows right in front of them.

"That door, over there," Sherlock directs him. He still doesn't understand why he has to do this and not Sherlock himself - the momma's boy.

They go outside. ' _Holy fuck,_ ' he exclaims in his brain. This place is like a goddamn park. There is a fountain. The woods is just on the other side of the place. How rich  _are_ the Holmes exactly?

He sees Mrs Holmes sitting on one of the benches near the fountain, reading a book. The only thing missing from what she looks like is if her lady-suit became floor-length and Victorian Era-ish. They walk over towards her.

Beside him, Sherlock clears his throat and Mrs Holmes finally looks up from her book.

"Oh, hello, dears." She closes her book with a snap and sits up even straighter, looking at both of them. "What brought you two here?" Sherlock moves to stand behind the bench on Mrs Holmes's right.

"I just want to ask you something..." Sherlock starts and gives him a look. He knows exactly what to do by that one look. He observes Sherlock whose knuckles are turning white from the pressure of his grip on the back of the bench.

"Well, actually, Mrs Holmes..." He pretends to cut Sherlock off. "It is _I_ who want to ask you something... That is if Sherlock is free this Sunday?"

"May I ask why, dear?" She smiles at him.

"Well, you see, Mrs Holmes, my parents want to have dinner with me, bringing along my girlfriend, and my best friend..." he moves to pat Sherlock in the back. It alarms him that Sherlock had flinched... and did he just hear him wince?

Mrs Holmes looks at Sherlock.

"Mummy? Please?" Sherlock asks.

She smiles sweetly. "Well, his father and I _are_ going away this weekend because of some problems with the family business and so, I wouldn't mind if my son would join your Sunday dinner..."

"Oh, thank you, Mrs Holmes!" He smiles genuinely. He looks at Sherlock and gives him an ' _I told you it wouldn't be that hard_ ' look and Sherlock gives him a smile back. The two Holmeses share a look once more and then both look at him.

"John, would you mind giving mummy and I a moment?" Sherlock asks.

He looks at the two. "Oh, I- no, not at all..." He walks back inside the ballroom.

Staring at some of the few paintings on the walls - the Holmes ancestry, paintings of a lovely view. Most of them are Mrs Holmes's work... ' _Hold on... Is that...?_ ' He sees a painting, beautifully made and saw the signature. "Mycroft Holmes," he whispers out loud and then he starts laughing like a hyena to himself.

* * *

"Oh, thank you, Mrs Holmes!" John tells his mother. John looks at him and gives him a reassuring ' _I told you so_ ' look and so he smiles back. He sees, in the corner of his eye, his mother's hand twitch. He looks up at her and she gives him a look that means ' _We need to talk at once but do not let him know that I forced you to do so._ '

"John, would you mind giving mummy and I a moment?"

"Oh, I- no, not at all..." John smiles once more and politely walks away from them and walks towards the Manor. He can feel his mother, like him, watch John as he goes.

When John enters and is temporarily out of eye-shot since he seems to be staring at some paintings, Violet slaps him in the face.

"What were you thinking?!" Violet hisses. "My husband and I do not even want you to walk around outside our own house and you agree to join them for dinner?! Are you even more out of your mind than you already are?!"

"No."

Violet slaps him once more and he panics and looks at John inside the house. They do have some large glass windows, you know? He sees John still looking at the paintings inside the house and he sighs in relief.

His attention was retaken by Violet who grips his arm hard and pulls him deeper in the back garden until they are hidden from John's view. His wrist will probably bruise later. When they reach a good distance from the place, Violet turns around quickly and slaps the fuck out of him. How can a woman who looks as fragile and innocent as his mother be so violent and strong?

"I tell you now. When you meet the Warners-" 

"The Watsons," he corrects and he gets slapped again.

"Stop interrupting me!" She composes herself. "Alright. When you meet these respectable people, I want you to play the _perfect_ _normal_ human being than the... monstrosity that you are. Since one of them had infiltrated the house, they will link you to here and I don't want my family's reputation to fall into ruins just because you bear the same name."

"Alright."

She slaps him again. He really hates it when she does that. "I'll let Siger know what you have fallen into. Do _not_ run off."

"After just threatening me of what's to come?"

She slaps him. "Because if you run off, I will personally kill you. Now, scuttle."

Clenching his jaws, he walks away from Violet and towards the manor and enters their ballroom. He sees John laughing by himself in front of one of Mycroft's works.

"Enjoying the arts of painting?" he asks bemusedly.

"I cannot believe Mycroft knows how to paint!"

"Got it from Vi-" He realises his mistake by calling his mother to his name and quickly change the word before John notices. "Vibrant talents one can only get from our mother's." He quickly changes the topic to prevent John from realising his slip-up. "If you think I am such a momma's boy, just you wait until you see her and Mycroft in the same room."

John chuckles and he smiles. He likes hearing John chuckles. It makes him feel like John actually enjoys his company. It makes him feel that  _someone_ enjoys his company.

"And what talent of hers did you get?" John asks him.

' _Other than my stubbornness and rebelliousness?_ ' "Definitely music."

John nods and keeps quiet as they both stare at Mycroft's painting which is quite good, as much as he is reluctant to admit it.

"So... Why'd you made me leave you and your mum alone?" John asks.

He considers lying to John but remembers their twenty-four hour rule. "Well, as one could have easily predicted, we had talked about you."

"...and?"

"She gave me full permission to let me go to your house on Sunday."

"But she already told us that, remember?"

"To fully understand who my parents are, they would require me to ask a more personal beseeching of permission after a casual one from someone else. Your presence is merely the proof they would have needed that I speak the truth."

"Oh." John looks at him. "Well... That's... strict."

He chuckles. "You have no idea."

His phone beeps just then. A million thoughts swarms in his head as he reads it.

> _**Just heard from your mother.  
>  I want the fireplace poker and rake beside the door when I get home tonight. You are in a serious case of trouble.  
>  S** _

Fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.

* * *

He sees the millions of emotions and thoughts pass through Sherlock's eyes in a matter of seconds. Something doesn't feel right and he can't even imagine what would have bothered Sherlock so much like this.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"We are in our twenty-four hour agreement," Sherlock replies calmly as he places the phone back in his pocket. He stares at the painting once more, fully composed.

"Yes... and...?"

"And the truth. You want the truth, do you not?" Sherlock asks.

"Sherlock-"

"The truth is: I do not want to talk about it and it would be of great jubilance to drop the subject entirely and immediately."

"Oh... I... er... Okay..." He nods, looking at him as Sherlock keeps staring at a distance.

He sees Sherlock lick his lips nervously. "John?" John hums in reply. "I believe you came here for two reasons and both had been explained and concluded. If I presume that there are no more things to be added, having those reasons accomplished, might I lead you to the door?"

He looks at him in mild shock. "You're going to make me leave?"

"John, as much as I know that you would like you to stay and... _hang-out_ at this place like at any other...  _normal_ people's place..." Sherlock scoffs at the word 'normal' as if belittling them. He smiles. "The parents will be busy tonight and I know they wouldn't perform unless you're in the house." Sherlock looks down at his phone once more and starts going through it.

"Oh, right..." He nods understandably. "I get it... You have some sort of big family business, haven't you?" he asks, looking around the place in awe once more.

"Sort of," Sherlock replies.

"Right..."

"The car will be here in seven minutes."

"Car?" he asks. Did Sherlock just call a fucking car just to take him home?

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock replying, shrugging as if he could read his mind.

"Oh-kay..."

So that's how the two of them ended up: both standing by the Holmes Manor gates, leaning casually on them as they wait for one of Mycroft's cars, which has finally came after a few minutes. He enters and waves goodbye at Sherlock. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock even as the car had moved.

He went as far as kneeling on the car seats to look at the back window. There, he sees Sherlock kneeling on the ground with one of his hands on the gate and the other one the ground.

* * *

John is gone. His legs finally fall underneath him. He quickly grabs onto the gate to keep himself up before he hits the ground and passes out. He is tired. So tired. Dead tired. He cannot move anymore. He lets himself collapse down on the ground. Before he passes out, he gives a quick text to Violet.

> _**Can't move. At gates.  
>  Might die of cold, fortunately for you. Will wait for father.  
>  W** _

A reply come a minute later.

> _**He will break you for your insolence.  
>  V** _

He closes his eyes as the soothing ground greets him in open arms.


	19. It Rings

He arrives home from Sherlock's place, worrying about Sherlock's condition the whole time. He has texted and called a bunch of times and was ignored. He kept demanding to be returned to the Holmes Manor but his demands had also been ignored by the driver. He was told that he was specifically told not to bring him back no matter what.

When he enters, he notices that his mother is there in the kitchen. His father, as usual, is nowhere to be seen, as is his sister who is probably with her once-again girlfriend, Clara. His family is not exactly close but they are not neglectful of each other either. They all have their own lives.

To him, it feels like they are all flatmates who happen to have the same last name and facial features. He knows it's already too late to start bonding again. He and Harry both have their own lives now and are not children anymore. Their parents lost their opportunity years ago.

"John? Harry?" his mother calls out from the kitchen. He can hear that she's washing some dishes.

"John!" he yells from the door, removing his jacket, as he walks in the kitchen.

"Oh, John! How was your day?" she asks.

The memory of the whole event that took place inside the Holmes Manor flashes through his mind.

"Interesting," he replies as he sits down on one of the seats on the kitchen table and watches his mother be domestic. It's a rare moment to see his own mother in the kitchen let alone doing something as domestic as washing dishes than sewing up a nearly dying man.

"Oh? How so?" He sees his mother smile at him briefly and look back at the dishes as she continues to wash them.

"Oh, well... You know... I went to ask both of them for that dinner. Mary was easy to talk to... but _him_?"

"The anti-social?"

He sighs. "He is _not_ anti-social, mum," he tells her pointedly, remembering Sherlock's relationship with him, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and his mum earlier. No, Sherlock is definitely  _not_ anti-social.

"Right, right, sorry... but from what you had told me, he doesn't even seem sociable. I always assumed he was anti-social. You don't mention him much. I never even got to know his name," his mum says thoughtfully and distractingly.

"Maybe because you haven't been spending much time with us," he snaps at her.

He hears the clanking of the plates and cutlery stop. "John, I-"

He moves in an instant, as if knowing he would snap. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just..."

"You know your dad and I-"

"Yes, yes, I know, I know."

"-are trying our absolute best and-"

"You're right. You're right. I know. I understand. Seriously, I do. I just..." He rubs his face with one hand. He sighs and sees his mother looking at him with guilt in her eyes. "I just wish you would have done your best reconnecting with us _earlier_."

He hears the water stop and then feels a hand on his shoulder. "John, please..."

"Sorry..." he says, placing his hand on top of hers. "I know you do it for our sakes but... I have been practically living alone for so long... You're always so busy..."

"We understand, dear. I mean, look at your father's progress... He regrets it. I regret it."

"I know..."

"I'm just getting even more and more worried for Harry by the minute."

"Because she has a girlfriend?"

A pause. "No. Not that. Never that... Your father and I discussed it and everything's fine... Never mind that... why I'm worried about her is because she's starting to drink like your dad from before."

He sighs. "I know. I've been driving a drunk Harry home far too many times. Sometimes I just drop her off at Clara's."

"Clara's her name then?" she asks. "God, I don't even know your sister's girlfriend's name."

He sighs. "Let's just forget about this. I'll go upstairs now."

"No, wait. You said something about the day becoming interesting because of your... friend?" His mum stays seated beside him and he sighs, knowing how desperate she is to reconnect with him for, at least, a little.

"Oh, right, yeah..." He sits up straighter. "I... Well, I invited him..."

"Yes, you said..."

"...and he agreed."

"He did?" His mum asks. "Well, that's good, isn't it? How does that make it interesting, though?" His mum continues to look at him and then starts nodding in understanding. "Oh... You weren't sure if-" He nods a lot in reply. "How'd you do it?"

Once more, the whole conversation from earlier before between him and Sherlock pops back in his brain... the twenty-four hour arrangement... the honesty... Sherlock's condition. He shakes his head.

"He just needed a little push."

His mother claps her hand in excitement. "Well, that's excellent news!" She stands up going around the kitchen. "What does he and your girlfriend like to eat? I mean, I could make their favourites just to make them more comfortable? Are they allergic to anything? Are they particular in their cutlery or something? Should I-"

"Slow down, mum," he laughs, raising a hand towards her as a gesture for her to stop. She smiles in reply, sitting back down beside him. "Anyway, Mary is more of a steak person."

"Alright." His mum goes deep into thought.

"...And Sherlock doesn't eat much. Well, except desserts, I guess."

His mother's head snaps up to him so quickly that he worries she would get whiplash. He almost jumps back from the intensity of his mother's eyes. They keep silent as they stare at each other. He tilts his head in question while his mother looks back down at her hands which are both resting on the table.

"Desserts... Got it..." His mother's voice had changed. It had gone dark somehow.

"Er... yeah..."

"So that's his name, then? Is it? 'Sherlock'?" His mother smiles in a somewhat forced manner but he lets his slide.

"Yup... Sherlock..." But he finds that he cannot resist. "But why-?"

"So, I better prepare for the dinner."

"It's tomorrow night, mum!"

"I must get started, dear. It's in the rules." 

She, then, starts going around the kitchen, being a frantic mother which makes him feel warm inside. He stands up and goes towards his room.

He rolls his eyes but laughs. He really likes his mum in the few moments that they share with each other every few months. He had already forgotten what kind of person she was when he was a kid. Why must his parents have to be either too successful in Medicine or be a drunk bastard? Yes, they are in good shape in terms of house rules, decency, curtesy... but they are in really bad form when it comes to their family relationship with the ignorance and the invisibility. That's how he felt for a long time. 

His family had only started trying to reconnect when Harry and Clara had been finally caught together. The family had gone to talking. His mum got a bit upset though and had walked out while his dad pursed his lips and had gone after her. He has never seen Harry so upset. He just stood there while he was yelled at by his sister to get out of her room.

Sighing, he finally reaches his room and falls down on his bed. Dear lord, is he exhausted. His mind still cannot seem to wrap around the idea - at the new deductions he himself had deduced from Sherlock himself. He goes to look back. Sherlock has a nice family. Mrs Holmes is incredibly talented, sweet, and kind. He can also a few hints of her sternness though. Mr Holmes is a funny man, though can be extremely intimidating when you get into his bad side. Now, for Sherlock.

Sherlock is more... Vulnerable isn't the word he would use. Human? He mentally slaps himself. Sherlock is  _already_ human, of course. Sherlock was simply... weak today... well, physically, at least. Has Sherlock been to another fight? Has Sherlock been doing drugs again? ' _Oh god... Please not that..._ '

He remembers all of it. He recalls the scene of Sherlock's fall when he left the manor.

His mind goes back to Sherlock's vigilance around their own furniture. He remembers Sherlock's weakened and hoarse voice... the relief he saw in Sherlock when he told Sherlock could stay at the moment... the desperation in Sherlock's eyes when he said he would leave if Sherlock doesn't say yes to the small agreement...

He remembers Sherlock's pale face... how Sherlock did not dare look at him the whole time when he returned to the ballroom. He thinks of Sherlock's bloodshot eyes... His face has even gone red. 

' _Did he slap himself again?_ ' he thinks. Sherlock seems to do that to himself a lot.

the look on Sherlock's face when he told all those things that would hit him to his core.

' _T_ _wice.'_

Sherlock's voice from earlier echoes in his brain. Did he really tell Sherlock all those horrible things to his face? Especially that word? Twice? He smacks himself. How can he be such a huge hypocrite? Here he was, threatening every single person in the known universe to stop being arseholes to Sherlock and yet, he himself has been the absolute arsehole he should be protecting Sherlock from. 

Rethinking everything, he thinks of one thing. God, what must have Sherlock been feeling this whole time?

* * *

He feels pathetic and dead... like he was being tortured as he crawls to his house. He didn't pass out, unfortunately. His eyes darkened but it stayed that way and slowly, his eyes came back to focus once more. Can't he take a break?

It's a great thing that the manor staff is not here to see him like this... though it's not like they don't know. It's just humiliating for them to see their employer's son crawling to his house while they are threatened with their lives to ignore him and keep their mouths shut. It's not hard for them to do so.

He finally reaches the door. Sure enough, his mother is standing by near him.

"I thought you couldn't move?" she asks impatiently, gesturing for him to stand up.

"Couldn't help myself..." he tells her. "Your husband wants the rake and the fireplace poker by the door when he comes home."

"Of course he does. You're going to pay for every flaw you had caused. Get up."

He cannot move once more. She rolls her eyes at this and proceeds to grip his forearm tightly and harshly pulls him up from the ground. She slaps him - not as hard as before - and pushes him harshly outside. He winces in pain when his body slams down on the ground, hitting every bruise and wound on his back.

"You better get the rake, then..." she calmly tells him, amusement in her eyes.

His parents are psychopaths. No wonder he is one. The thought hurts him. Mycroft seems to be the only sane one in the family. No, that's wrong. He's the  _sanest_ one but he isn't  _sane_. Mycroft may be colder and icier than ice itself but he isn't a psychopath.

Sighing, he crawls outside and finds a spot to hide in the darkest area in the garden. As he sits there, knowing how entirely fucked he is. He keeps quiet, hiding. His heart pounds his chest in fear. A rake. What does his father want with a rake? A rake! That's new. Very new. Completely new. The thought of his father, clawing his already beaten-up back with a  _rake_ scares the shit out of him. Maybe his father actually wants to kill him this time. That thought is not unwanted.

No. John has given him hope. Hope to be better... Hope to live... Hope that he and John can be friends again. That's the push. He needs to be there for John. Always. He can't leave him alone again...

...but he shivers at the thought of his father coming back in the manor in god-knows-when... 

* * *

It rings.

His phone rings, getting his thoughts away from his horrifying realisation of how shitty he has been to Sherlock. He looks at the caller and becomes confused and surprised.

' _Speaking of the devil..._ '

He laughs but stops at the realisation that Sherlock doesn't call... He has been told by Sherlock countless of times that he prefers to text. Why would he call now? Something is not right.

"Hello?"

" _John?_ "

He sits up in alarm. Sherlock's voice is the obvious hint. Now that he has pushed all the anger away, Sherlock's an even greatly opened book. No, Sherlock is a book torn in pieces with its pages scattered around carelessly. From that word - his name - alone, he can make out that Sherlock is trying to act calm, cool, casual, and collected... but he heard it. Sherlock sounds... panicky... and in... fear?

"Sherlock? Is everything okay? What's wrong? What happened? Twenty-four hours, don't forget," he reminds Sherlock.

" _...Can I visit your house earlier than the appointed time tomorrow?_ "

He notices that Sherlock had changed the subject entirely. Sherlock always changes the subject. He lets it go for now whilst Sherlock is using his ' _I am bored. Give me a distraction before I shoot the wall_ ' voice. Let Sherlock keep his secrets. Sherlock will tell him what he wants to tell him. He should respect that... for now.

"Yeah, sure..."

" _Excellent!_ "

"Right... I live in-"

" _No need to bother, John. I know where you live. I'll be there in a few minutes._ "

Sherlock hangs up. What the hell? What was that all about?

* * *

It rings.

His phone rings. He looks at the caller and his eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise to see his brother call him. It must be important for his brother to actually call instead of text. How needy is Sherlock right now? Sherlock's hand must be trembling hard for him to call. No. Sherlock must be in an extreme situation to even initiate contact with him.

"Brother dear?"

" _I need a car._ " The fear is evident from the tone and the urgency.

"What for?"

" _There is no need to ask questions. I need a car and I need it now._ "

Is Sherlock being chased by some people again? Is he on the threat of a kidnapping once more? What in the world is his brother up to?

"Where are you?"

" _The manor._ "

Sherlock isn't running from someone, then. Is Sherlock lying? No. Sherlock is most likely at the manor. Why is he running away? Dear lord, he is attempting to run away again.

"If you-"

" _I am not going to get in trouble_." He knows Sherlock is rolling his eyes. The annoyance is real this time.

"You would understand why I require a proper answer."

" _Mycroft... Please... I need a car... Please..._ "

"..."

" _..._ "

"..."

" _..._ "

"I'll have the driver text me your destination as soon as you tell him."

" _I'm just going at John's. Just... hurry..._ " 

Sherlock hangs up and he immediately goes into overdrive. If Sherlock and John were to see him right now, they would immediately say that he has gone into 'mother hen' mode.

* * *

Eight minutes later, the car finally arrives. Mycroft is getting slower as time passes by. He tells John's address to the driver. He also notices the driver text for a moment before they drive off to his house.

* * *

As time stretches, the realisation that Sherlock has never even been at his house nor he at the Holmes Manor before Sherlock's disappearance had come across in his mind. They had always been at Baker Street, at school, at Angelo's, and anywhere where they were almost killed and such. Things had changed. 

Another sudden realisation hits him: his house is a complete dump compared to Sherlock's manor. His cheeks heat up at the embarrassment of showing where he lived to Sherlock who is probably used to sleeping in a King-sized bed.

It rings.

The doorbell rings. He had already warned his mother that Sherlock had to come earlier than expected. She's more than thrilled. He runs to the door and opens it, only to find Sherlock heavily leaning on the doorway. 

Sherlock looks even more exhausted than usual with his face looking red - just like before he had left. Has he been slapping himself again?

"May I come in?" Sherlock asks, almost pleadingly, in a whisper. It is a strange contrast to his cool demeanour a few hours before. What had happened in between these hours?

"Er, yeah, yeah... Come in..."

He opens the door wider for Sherlock to enter... and enter he does. Sherlock falls down on the couch and lies down, as if already at home. The other teen stares up at the ceiling while he sits on the armchair beside the couch and stares at Sherlock. It would seem as if they are in a Psychiatrist's Office with John serving as the psychiatrist. Funny he should mention that... He rests his elbows on his knees and sits on the edge of the armchair.

"...May I ask why you suddenly came in here all of a sudden?"

"No. No, you may not," Sherlock answers quietly.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about this," Sherlock answers despairingly, closing his eyes.

"Right... Okay..." he replies quietly, nodding and looking down at the floor.

"It doesn't mean that I don't trust you, John. Stop thinking of such ridiculous things," Sherlock suddenly snaps, causing him to look at Sherlock whose eyes are still closed.

This way, it would seem Sherlock is more at peace, like he is finally relaxing after all the tiredness. He doesn't ask. Somehow, he just trusts what Sherlock had said.

' _Trust issues._ '

The voice at the back of his echoes which he quickly shakes away. He has trust issues, yes, but somehow, he trusts Sherlock with his life more than anybody. Apparently and hopefully, so does Sherlock.

"You look like shit," he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock, in turn, opens one eye and looks at him up and down before giving him a brief smile as he closes his eyes once more.

"You look like a hedgehog."

"Sorry, what? I look like a what again?"

"People in school had talked about you a lot, John. Some of the girls resemble you with that of a hedgehog."

"I don't look like that!"

"Mary says you do."

"And when exactly did she told you that?"

"Everyone thinks you're a hedgehog, John. It's old news. I don't know how you managed not to know this small fact about you."

"But I don't look lik-!"

"Tea?" his mother interrupts.

Sherlock opens both his eyes and turns his head to look at his mother. He is probably deducing her. Sherlock probably already knows everything about her... even things that he doesn't know. Shit. He told some things about Sherlock to his mother but he completely forgot telling her about his deductions.

Sherlock sits up rather slowly and gets the tea from her. She smiles at him.

"Thank you," Sherlock says. He sighs in relief. 

"I'm Laura Watson." She reaches a hand towards him and Sherlock shakes it.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replies as Sherlock shakes it. "Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson," he says, before freezing and looking at him and his mother in a small amount of panic. He smiles lightly at the thought that Sherlock didn't mean to reveal his deductions to her. It shows that he actually  _is_ trying.

His mother's eyes widen in surprise, and she nods. "Oh, John told you about me already? How rude of you, John," his mum tells him, smiling the entire time. He and Sherlock just let out a sigh of relief. "Well, I better leave you two alone for a while... Must be something important if Sherlock decided to come here sooner than later."

He looks up at his mother. He expected a thousand questions to swarm him but his mother doesn't seem bothered with Sherlock's sudden appearance. How exactly does he know this woman in front of him? He sighs.

"I'll be in my room if you need me," she tells the two.

"Okay, mum..."

With that, she leaves the room, leaving Sherlock and him alone. Silence fills the room and before he asks something, Sherlock had beaten him into it.

"I need to sleep."

He raises his brow at him. "Yes, you do. The question is: will you?"

Sherlock snorts but admits, "Yes."

He smiles at that. "You can sleep in my bed... No, I do not imply anything else. I'll take the couch," he offers but Sherlock shakes his head and his eyes close. "You want the couch?" Sherlock nods. "But you're my guest... You should go to my bed." Sherlock grumbles. "Are you a hundred percent sure?" Sherlock hums.

Before he asks anymore, Sherlock's breathing has changed. He's fast asleep. He stands up to get a blanket and some pillows for the tall lanky git. He covers Sherlock with the blanket and closes the lights, going to sleep in his room. 

* * *

He opens his eyes as John leaves the room. He completely appreciates that John had given him a blanket and some pillows for him to sleep more comfortably... but he couldn't sleep. Not in his condition. He has no idea how long he had hidden in that area but he knows it must have been hours since he had only gone in his Mind Palace the whole time to go away from his fear.

Understanding defeat and finally standing up to get help, his body flares in deep pain right now. His back and legs are torture. He leans on the wall as he walks to help himself straight up. He tiptoes to the hallway where the bedrooms would be. Three bedrooms. He stands in front of the door which he knows he had deduced correctly.

He hears movement inside which makes relieves him to know that there is consciousness inside. He can finally be able to talk about his pain and be honest about everything. 

He is desperate for help and he feels like someone has raked his whole body. He winces at the word "rake" as he whispers it to himself. As his mind flashes through some of his worse memories, his lower lip trembles but he stops anything that might happen before it happens. He knows if he hadn't learned to control himself, he would be sobbing on the floor right now. Thank god he isn't or he would have been heard by anyone else in the house.

It's just eight o'clock. Everyone else is most likely awake.

He gets in the room.


	20. Doctor Watson

He looks at the person occupying the bed in the room. Those dark blue eyes look up at him in surprise and he looks down in shame. His embarrassment rushes through his cheeks as he starts to think of what to say to ask for help. Initially, he would have argued that no, he is Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't need help... but he does need his doctor.

The person in question, who was reading, snaps the book close and stands up to walk over him.

"Sherlock?"

He leans back to the door he had just went through in humiliation. He feels incredibly sheepish to even be here... but he knows he has to. This is far beyond his expertise. He is confident that Doctor Watson will tend to him, much to his denial. His grip on the door knob tightens as to not fall down on his face.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? No. What _happened_?"

He gives in and sighs in defeat. He can feel his legs shaking below him, betraying him.

"I... I need your, er..." He clears his throat and straightens himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "...help..."

Finally, as he steps forward, he releases the door knob and down he falls.

The only thing he can hear is his name being called.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

"I..."

* * *

He stays on his bed, thinking about the severity of Sherlock's pain and misery. Has he been blind all this time? What kind of a friend he is? He is a hypocrite to call out on Sherlock's lacking in being a good friend when he himself is a piece of shit.

But what completely baffles him is why Sherlock would suddenly go to his house when he said himself that he would have needed permission from his parents first. Had something happened between now and then?

He calls Mary who thankfully answers on the first ring.

" _Hey,_ " she whispers.

"Hey," he replies back.

" _John? What's wrong?_ " she asks.

"What? Nothing."

" _I can hear it in your voice, John Watson. So go on, tell me. What happened?_ "

"It's just..." He sighs. "I don't know."

" _This is me... Come on, you know you can tell me anything if you want to... and I know you want to... It's on the tip of your tongue. I can hear it._ "

"...It's about Sherlock."

" _I knew it. What happened?_ "

"Well, he suddenly came here at my place."

" _Really? Why?_ "

"I don't know but God, Mary... If you'd have seen him earlier..." His voice cracks.

" _I_ _don't think this is a conversation meant to be exchanged over the phone. Come on, do you want to meet?_ "

"Yes."

" _Okay..._ "

"Alright, I'll be outside your house in ten minutes."

He hangs up and grabs his clothes. He places a note on his bed just in case someone checks up on him and panics from his absence. He knows it's horrible for him to leave Sherlock in the state he is in but he needs to talk to someone about Sherlock or else he will explode.

He doesn't want to wake Sherlock from the couch and so he tries to leave quietly by tiptoeing his way out... but if he had been more observant, or hadn't been so careful or keen to find someone else for the moment, he would have noticed the empty couch.

* * *

"Doctor Watson..." Sherlock said in a very hoarse voice. He doesn't seem stable enough to be able to finish the sentence he wants to tell her.

She quickly kneels in front him. "On the bed, quickly..." her usual doctor voice says.

She watches as Sherlock pitifully limps beside her as she guides him to her bed. "I apologise to barge in like this... I just..." Sherlock quietly tells her. "I didn't know what to... I just..."

"Sherlock, it's okay, it's okay... You clearly need all the help you can get."

She grabs her medical bag which she had thankfully stored in her room just in case it was needed if one of the kids had to wake them up because of some injury. The amount of times John came in her and her husband's room with a drunk and slightly injured Harry is uncanny.

"So... let me see your wounds."

She removes all thoughts of emotions in her head as she watches Sherlock fall into regret - regret for asking for help  _again_ \- just to be more rational about the whole scenario. Looking up at her with a look that clearly means, ' _Please don't let me do this_ ,' she sends Sherlock a classic ' _don't mess with me_ ' Watson look. In defeat, Sherlock nods at her in understanding that he won't be able to get his way out of this one.

She had met the Holmeses more than a decade ago with a helpless injured little boy who begged her to help him be free of his parents. Sherlock was about four at the time. Upon realising that she is aware of the problem in the Holmes household, she was threatened by Siger and Violet Holmes.

At first, it confused her why on earth these two people would risk the exposure of their  _abuse_ on their own son... The next question is why they never took a private doctor from whatever organisation they are in, because they  _would_ be in an organisation to have this much power over everything. She can't even get the police to investigate them. So this bothered her... Why her? It baffled her immensely.

...until, one, Siger mentioned her children: Harry and John. Of course, they had already chosen her beforehand because they know of her weakness. Despite having financial problems and problems with her husband, James's alcoholism, she would never trade her children for anything... two, Violet had mentioned that she had high morals and that her mothering nature would make her helpful with Sherlock's injuries. She wouldn't just be a mere normal doctor who takes care of the injuries alone. She would make sure that Sherlock is okay in every sense of the way.

It makes her sick that she only understood its meaning  _after_ she had agreed with the statement. She would heal Sherlock tremendously so they would be able to be rough on him again. It is like Sherlock is a canvas and his parents colour him red while she erases them afterwards only for his parents to colour him up again. Since then, she had been in a moral dilemma concerning Sherlock.

Like right now... Despite being a professional doctor, she clenches her jaw in anger at the horrible sight that greets her. Scars, wounds, and bruises litter around Sherlock's back. They are all swollen. Thankfully, none of them seem to need stitches... but the severity of Sherlock's condition would have had her in tears if she wasn't trained to be practical and think with her brain before her emotions.

"Doctor...?" Sherlock asks.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm losing my professionalism again, as you so put it," she chuckles to keep the conversation light.

She heard a small snort from Sherlock again before he says, "I know. I can feel it since I came... but you have to stop this, _doctor_... I don't want to hear anything about it again."

As she starts to clean the wounds, she replies with, "You have been going to my office almost every day now... Your physical and mental health keeps getting worse by the day."

"I know..."

" _And_ it is  _not_ your fault," she emphasises. He nods. "If this keeps going on, I might tell your brother."

Sherlock's head snaps towards her. "No, you can't. This is a private matter and you are a doctor. We have a doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. You won't just break it. I know you won't."

She licks her lips and tells him, "Sherlock, what am I?"

"...what?"

"What am I?" she asks again.

"A doctor?"

"And what do I do?"

"You use years of medical knowledge and research to diagnose an individual, should the need be necessary, and treat whatever disability or disorder he or she had shown signs of."

"... Well, yes, but in short, I-"

"-cure people's health-related problems."

"Yes, Sherlock, but most importantly, I _help_ people. Do you think leaving you like this is helping you?"

"It does if that would mean getting in _their_ good shoes..." He flinches as she cleans a particular scar but doesn't make any other move that indicates that she had hurt him even a little.

"That is not even a good excuse to accept this condition of yours. To let yourself fall in a horrible state because of _fear_ is not good, Sherlock."

"...Let's not talk about this or else I will do parkour," Sherlock threatens and she laughs, but will let go of the topic once more. "How did you know I have a brother? Neither I nor my parents had ever hinted anything about my having a brother."

She sighs. "Do you forget that I am the mother of your best friend? He talks about you a lot, you know, every time we see each other... I just never knew that his best friend is _my_ regular patient."

"How wouldn't you know? I thought John had told you all about me?"

"He talked about his best friend, you, yes... I just never heard your name."

"Oh yes, drifting family, John had said."

She pauses in a while but continues patching up Sherlock's wounds.

"I don't forget that small detail... I've always known he's your son since I met him... I knew he'd be as-" Sherlock stops himself.

"As...?" she asks.

"Never mind."

"He doesn't know I'm your doctor, I take it from earlier?"

"Nope and I would like that to stay that way."

"He's concerned about you, you know."

"I heard..." Sherlock whispers.

"And you heard right," she replies. "My son is training to be a doctor, too. He can be a bit blinded when it comes to things like this but I believe that he has an inkling of what is happening behind closed doors."

"No, he doesn't. You know he had gone to my house earlier today. You know my parents. I don't doubt that whatever John's suspicions are with the parents had been thrown out of the window already."

She nods. "You may have a point."

"Of course, I do."

She chuckles. Knowing Sherlock, she knows he would rather talk casually about something so serious rather than overwhelm him with the weight of the problem. They had always talked about the horrible things as lightly as possible though the meaning of their words had always been meaningful. After sessions with Sherlock, she never fails to give herself time to think about the situation and have herself reflect on what had just happened.

It saddens her that a strong mind such as Sherlock's is being oppressed with its potential by being too busy to strengthen it because of his parents. Had events been different, perhaps Sherlock had already gone on to brilliant careers with the help of his parents.

"Your parents are horrid people who do not deserve you, and you do not deserve how they treat you." Sherlock hums. "I stand by what I said and don't think I didn't notice how amazingly smooth you had changed the topic."

Sherlock chuckles, "It was worth a try."

"I am your doctor for more than a decade. I don't care if they could take me away from my job by threatening my employers. I don't care if they would kidnap me and force me to shut up. If it is needed, I would tell your brother or someone related to you about this, not as your doctor, but as an acquaintance."

"They threatened John and Harry... not you or your job," he quietly responds.

She pauses, clenching her jaw in annoyance that he is, of course, right. "Then I will tell John. Just John."

"No," Sherlock tells her darkly which is oddly a bit intimidating for a teenager.

"If it comes down to it, John needs to know. You are keeping this humongous secret from him. Technically, I am your doctor, yes, and you are my patient and we should value this confidentiality between us. I shouldn't even be snooping in your business, knowing that your parents will snap my neck if I attempted to talk." She feels Sherlock tense at her words. "But John is my son, too, and you are his best friend. It may as come as a shock to you, knowing your history, but telling him will help both of you."

"You can't," Sherlock chokes. "Not to John. Not to Mrs Hudson. Not to Lestrade... and definitely not to Mycroft."

She notices how Sherlock had said the list of names like a list of strength, his encouragements... She really is glad that Sherlock had found the friends he lacked, unlike when he was younger. John has been good for Sherlock, and Sherlock has been good for John.

The problem is that both do not even realise that.

"Where else does it hurt?" she asks in a calm manner.

He chuckles, "You make it sound as if you're talking to a child."

She chuckles back. "Just answer the question, Sherlock."

"Leg. The right one."

She nods at him and kneels down to inspect Sherlock's leg. To the naked eye, Sherlock's limping would have been undecipherable but she is a trained doctor and she had been Sherlock's doctor for a long time not to notice it. She is practically trained to notice everything about Sherlock. Observing her son as well, she knows that he, at least, knows that Sherlock may not be feeling as well as one would hope. Anyone could look at Sherlock and see the bags underneath those tired eyes - a large contrast to the pale sweaty skin.

Finally, checking Sherlock's leg, she lets out a little, "Oh Jesus."

* * *

He spots Mary sitting on the steps to her place, waiting for him. "Hey," she greets, standing up when she had noticed him.

"Hey," he replies, sitting on the steps and gesturing for her to sit back down.

"So...? What happened?" Mary asks, concerned.

He sighs, "I-it's Sherlock... He-" He swallows his words and frustrations. He places his elbows on his knees and leans forward, wringing his fingers which are clasped together.

"It's okay," Mary whispers.

"No, that's it, really. It is _not_ okay. Sherlock has been through a lot and I have been a dickhead to him..."

"I don't think it's that bad..."

"You should have seen his face after I told him..." he trails off.

"Told him what?"

He shakes his head. "I told him some terrible things, Mary." He looks at the ground. "I don't even remember half of what I said - not in detail - but I know the gist of it." He feels her wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his right shoulder. "I said something terrible to him three times. Well, I told him _a lot_ of terrible things, but these three had had a reaction from him that was too much for me to bear. The first, he looked hurt. The second, he looked like he lost a bloody leg. The third, he looked absolutely lost, lost to fucking oblivion, dead. Fuck, Mary. I'm a fucking terrible human being, much less a friend."

"You are not a terrible friend, John, and you are certainly _not_ a terrible human being. The fact that you are in this state suggests so. I admit that whatever you might have said might have been terrible to have that reaction from Sherlock. You are also terrible at reading Sherlock since you are close to him. I don't blame you for getting angry and frustrated with him.  _I'm_ still angry at him for your sake for leaving so suddenly. It would make anyone angry when the one you love leaves you... but... from what I have seen, Sherlock seems to be absolutely egotistical. He probably would never admit how much he cares about you and he would always hide that fact."

"That's what kills me the most."

"What does?"

"The fact that I had never realised that he cares when in truth, he may probably be the one who cares the most."

"Don't be surprised that he hid that from you. From what I've seen, the more important you are to Sherlock's life, the more likely he is to hide his feelings from you. He's a good actor."

"And you can see him?" He raises a brow at her.

"I'm not you, John. I can tell when he's fibbing without actually needing to see him."

"How?"

"I'm a woman. It's what we do."

He chuckles, then sighs. "What should I do?"

"I think he's terrified."

"He's not _really_ terrified, is he?"

"Right, you know when you're scared of something, you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going? That's what he's doing."

"What is _it_? What did he do that made whatever it is happen sooner? What is he scared of?"

The two keeps silent.

He hears Mary take an intake of breath and he looks at her. "What is it?" She looks at a distance and her eyes look, well, distant. "What do you know?"

* * *

' _Oh, John. You and Sherlock, honestly..._ ' 

It's about John. It has to be about John... and what did Sherlock do to John? Push him away.

Sherlock had pushed and is still pushing John away sooner than possible because Sherlock fears John leaving him and he'd probably rather have him be the one to push John than be the one left. 

Considering her dark past (which hopefully stays in her past), she knows how to think like Sherlock, well, a bit... and it puts a small emotion in her about Sherlock and his many sacrifices for John.

"What is it?" she hears John. "What do you know?"

"I don't think it's my place to tell, really."

"What? Why?" John gives her a confused look.

"Because it isn't." She smiles sympathetically. "I know what you're thinking. I've been telling you what is in my mind for a while now. Why hide this? Why hide the very answer you are seeking out of all things?"

"Mind reader," John comments, smiling. "Just... tell me, please."

"You have to figure it out on your own. I don't want you to know and realise from someone else because it would do more harm than good. You have to know and _be sure_ for yourself. It is the only way for you to completely understand and grasp it. I know you will try to look your way around it when I tell you... even doubt it. You have to know it for yourself. I'm sorry."

He rests his head on hers. "It was easier when he was gone."

"John-"

"I know. I know. I'm _thrilled_ that he is back but..."

"But everyone knows that you need each other."

"You make me sound like I'm in a relationship with him." He pokes her nose.

"You might as well be," she chuckles.

"Enough with the sexual orientation accusations, if you don't mind."

"For God's sake, John!" She exclaims and he looks at her. "You're a brilliant couple! Don't deny it."

He gives her a murderous look and she laughs.

* * *

"You need to go to the hospital," Doctor Watson's usual doctor-voice says.

"I won't."

"This is too much for my medical bag. I can't heal it unless we go to the hospital. We will go now."

"No."

"I'll call your brother or any next of kin to get you there."

"Don't. Tell him about the leg but don't tell him about the parents. Tell him that - I don't know - some gang caught me or something or another."

"Lying to your brother won't solve anything."

"Telling him will make things worse. End of discussion. No more."

"I'm just saying that he has the right to know."

"Yet it is unwise to tell him. Things won't be better. Everything will go crashing down if he finds out."

" _When_ he finds out. He will find out about this. Your family is perceptive and observant. I don't doubt your brother is intelligent like you."

"...I know."

"At least..." Laura Watson sighs. "Tell him when the time comes."

"What time?"

"...when your parents are too much for you to handle."

"...Alright."

"Good... but you really need to go to the hospital for this, Sherlock. This is not my area of expertise. What happened?"

"It was stomped on... multiple times," he admit.

Doctor Watson closes her mouth when she accidentally lets out a "God."

"It's okay," he tells her immediately. God knows what her reaction would be if he told her that he might not have survived if he stayed and found out what his father had wanted to do with a rake.

"No, it's not. It'e never okay. You're pushing away everyone you hold dear... lying to them... hiding from them... not getting help."

"It's better not to say anything."

She sighs, probably knowing that he won't tell a single thing to anyone until they are dying.

"Fine, I'll drive us to the hospital."

She stands up and grabs her keys from the nightstand.

"Doctor Watson?"

She turns around and looks at him. "Yes?"

He smiles at her. "Thank you," he hears himself whisper.

She smiles warmly at him... When she does that, he can feel that she is like a real mother to him... like how a real mother would feel like.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Come on, I'll help you downstairs, okay?"

He nods at her. "Thank you," he says louder.

"I know." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. John's mother and Sherlock know each other. Don't be surprised. If you guys would go back to Chapter 3, it is already hinted there that Sherlock knows something about Doctor Watson. 
> 
> It's one of the many reasons why he gave John a chance in the first place.


	21. The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for not posting for a long time. I just started my third term of my first year in university last month and had been busy by then.

After that talk with Mary, he walks back to his house quietly, trying to think of whatever it is Sherlock is afraid of. He looks in curiosity and surprise when he found his mum walking outside with Sherlock following closely behind her.

' _Blimey. Are these two getting along? Wait, hold on..._ _Do they know each other? Why is Sherlock clinging to her like that? Am I seeing things? What is going on?_ ' he thinks as he watches the two.

Walking towards them, he starts with, "Hey, what's happening here?"

Looking at Sherlock, who looks absolutely horrified but is trying to hide his horrid feeling, some heavy weight falls on my chest. He moves his eyes from Sherlock to his mum who looks determined, sad, and angry all at the same time. It reminds him of what Sherlock often tells him he can see from his face whenever he is tending to Sherlock's wounds from his bullies.

"What's going on?" he asks louder and firmer because of alarm and worry - absolute worry. He moves towards them.

Sherlock and his mum exchange a small look. Looking at him, his mum whispers, "John..." before turning back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, do you mind telling John what is happening here?" she asks.

"Yes, I do mind," Sherlock answers. His mum gives Sherlock a look and Sherlock shrugs in return. That confirms it: his mum and Sherlock know each other from before.

"How do you two know each other?" he asks.

"Well-," Sherlock starts, moving forward towards the car, opening the door. He stops Sherlock from continuing to run away from his questioning.

"No. Don't. Not right now. Don't lie, Sherlock! We made an agreement. Twenty-four hours of truth... Mum, what is-? You, two, had met before. I know it. I feel it. You, two, know each other. How?"

"John-" Sherlock starts.

"No. Don't delay the answer. Just tell me," he demands.

"Sherlock," his mum whispers.

"She's a... My parents know her," Sherlock answers and he sees them share a look at that. "I actually met her in one of my mother's meetings with her..." He sees his mother nod, looking at a distance.

"Why would your mum and my mum have a meeting with each other? I mean, we're not exactly... at your level," he adds the last part awkwardly, trying not to show his insecurity with his family's finances compared to Sherlock's.

"My parents know every single doctor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital," Sherlock replies.

"So that's how you know that mum is a doctor!" he exclaims, remembering the time he and Sherlock first met and how odd it was that Sherlock knows his mum is a doctor and never explaining how he knew.

Sherlock hums in reply.

"So... what _is_ going on here?" he asks, not wanting to lay off the topic. Sherlock looks at him frustratedly while his mother looks even more determined.

"...We're going to Bart's," his mother finally replies through the silence. Sherlock closes his eyes as if he is ashamed.

"WHAT?! Why?!" he asks in horror, looking at Sherlock worriedly. His mum look at Sherlock once more and they share a look for only a moment. He would have missed it if he blinked.

"...Sherlock?" his mum asks quietly, pleading. He knows that voice. He has that same voice every time he tries pleading with Sherlock. He doesn't notice that both he and his mum are both looking at Sherlock the same way: expectant.

Sherlock shakes his head, sighing. "I want to be honest to you, John..." He notices his mum sigh in relief. "And speaking in all honesty... I don't want to tell you why we're going there." Sherlock leans heavily on the car. "Now, may we please go to the hospital?"

"...Alright. Alright!" he exclaims.

He almost wants to demand, ' _No. We will not go until you tell me why!_ ' before realising how horrible and selfish that sounds. Sherlock _obviously_ needs medical attention and it struck him how Sherlock had went along with his mum to go to Bart's. Is it because his mum is a doctor, and that's why Sherlock was willing to obey her orders?

He tags along, sitting beside the driver's seat while Sherlock stays at the back.

As they start to drive, he moves to look behind him and stares at Sherlock who is looking out of the window, deep in thought, and dare he say: troubled?

"You're really not going to say anything about this?" he asks Sherlock who looks at him to repeat the question and he does.

"No," Sherlock replies.

He hums in response. He looks at his mum whose jaws are clenched, concentrating on driving down the road. "And you know why?" he asks.

His mum's lips tighten and she breathes deeply. "Yes," she answers lowly.

"Tell me, mum," he begs.

"No."

"Mum, please."

"John, Sherlock is _right there_. He said that he won't say and I do not have the right to say it to you either. It's not my business to tell, John. Surely, you respect that, right?" She looks at him briefly and he narrows his eyes at her.

He stares outside the window, looking away from her. He hears her sigh and the road to Bart's stay silent.

"We're here," she finally announces.

He and his mother walk out of the car. He waits for Sherlock to climb out while his mum goes inside to grab a wheelchair for Sherlock. The patient himself has made no movement from inside the car, and he seems to be staring straight ahead.

He opens the door to the car and notices Sherlock flinch. ' _Are Sherlock's hands trembling?_ ' he asks himself.

"...Sherlock?..." he whispers.

After a while, Sherlock finally turns his head to look at him and his eyes speak for the battles raging inside his head. Sherlock looks lost... vulnerable... horrified...  _afraid_... all of the emotions he didn't know and wished would ever appear on Sherlock's face again.

' _What the fuck is going on?_ '

He has been asking himself that question a lot of times now. Finally, he hears it - footsteps. He shakes himself out of his head and back into reality. The footsteps are much closer than he first thought it was. Three pairs of footsteps. He looks at Sherlock and the owner of these footsteps.

He sighs in relief when the Holmes family come into view. ' _How did they-?_ ' He feels amusement at the thought of Mycroft being a melodramatic stalker like his brother. But he thought that his mum might have convinced Sherlock to call his family since they are going to Bart's.

"Good evening, Mr and Mrs Holmes... Mycroft..." he greets them, shaking the Holmes parents' hands and nodding at Mycroft.

"John, where's Doctor Watson?" Mrs Holmes asks.

"Right here," he hears his mum reply behind him. She has with her a wheelchair which he doubts Sherlock would ever agree to be in.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft starts. "We're here for Sherlock." Was that concern he heard in Mycroft Holmes's voice?

"We were worried sick. First, he was at the house, and suddenly, he disappears. I thought I might have a heart attack!" Mrs Holmes shakes her head in disbelief. "Oh dear, what happened to him?!"

"Never mind, hurry now, the wheelchair," Mr Holmes starts, pulling the wheelchair from his mum. "Let's hurry him up to the hospital. Hey..." Mr Holmes taps the side of the car to take Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock, who had been looking at him the whole time, moves his eyes from him to his own parents with impassive eyes. "Yes, father?" Sherlock asks.

"Kindly get out of the car, please," Mr Holmes asks.

"No."

* * *

"No," Sherlock replies coldly. She looks at everyone in concern and worry. 

She looks at Sherlock. She cannot believe how courageous he is to say that to his father's face. Yes, that was courageous for him... but that bravery will also kill him. How strong is Siger Holmes to inflict such horrid injuries to his own son?

She glances at her son, John, who looks utterly... disappointed at Sherlock. It hurts her that she cannot tell his own son what is going on with his  _best friend_. She knows Sherlock's being concerns her son the most. From the few moments they have been together, John had been telling her his worry for his best friend (who is apparently her regular patient for years). It is so easy to tell John everything as a concern parent for her son and as an acquaintance of her son's best friend.

But as Sherlock's doctor? Her lips are sealed from confidentiality and threat on her children's lives. Granted, Harry and John are not children anymore, but they are still  _her_ children. Then again, Sherlock is a child himself. This is a horrible position the Holmeses had placed her. The first time they met, Sherlock himself had told her that he bears no hard feelings on her for he understands what she is going through.

It horrifies her how mature Sherlock was for a five-year old.

"Come on..." Mr Holmes says. Everyone else may be fooled but not her. She knows he is threatening the poor child. She has never even heard him say his own son's name...

"No," Sherlock insists. Sherlock  _can_ be as brave as her son, but now is not the time to be stupid. What Sherlock is doing is suicide.

"Don't make me drag you out of this car and pull you to the hospital..." Mr Holmes's voice may have sounded concerned and threatening for the sake of Sherlock's being, but she knows better. Mr Holmes truly  _is_ threatening Sherlock and would push through the violence with force and brutal violence.

"...I can't," Sherlock whimpers.

"Explain?" Mrs Holmes asks.

"Sherlock, please. We only want to help and you have to talk to us..." John says. ' _Oh god, my dear little John. If only you knew..._ '

"Sherlock, get out of the car please..." a boy I assume to be Sherlock's brother quietly asks.

"I really can't," Sherlock replies distressed.

She understood immediately of the situation she is witnessing. If Sherlock truly didn't want to go with them, he would have ran away in an instant. But no, John is here. He would have followed with his parents as to not disappoint John as he is right now. Then why is he staying in the car? His leg.

Sherlock might have been limping before, then now it must be even worse.

"The wheelchair. Carry him to the wheelchair!" she tells everyone urgently and they look at her.

"I'm sorry?" Mrs Holmes asks. She wants to stab Mrs Holmes in the fucking face.

"I inspected his leg earlier. It is _not_ looking good. I suggest you carry him right this instant and place him in the wheelchair so we can move him to another doctor who has the right equipment," she practically scolds her.

A minute later, they're wheeling him in the hospital.

* * *

He has no fucking idea of what is happening and he hates it. He silently chuckles to himself at how similar he is to Sherlock right now for wanting to know something so badly. The smile on his face fades completely at the thought of Sherlock. He's still in the hospital and it's been  _hours_. Obviously, Sherlock will be admitted in the hospital for days.

Focusing on something else other than Sherlock, he glances at his mother and at Mycroft who looks as worried as he feels. The three of them were the only ones left waiting in the hospital. Well, there is a fourth but he doesn't think Not-Anthea counts since she's waiting for Mycroft, not Sherlock.

It surprised him that Sherlock's parents had already left and claimed that they have to go somewhere important because what can be more important than your child in a  _hospital_? Then again these are Sherlock and Mycroft's parents. Two Holmeses that are probably involved in something huge.

He guesses Sherlock's parents must be cold for the sake of the greater good. Or perhaps like their children, the Holmes parents are too shaken up from Sherlock's state that they moved their focus to their work to remove and forget all emotions getting a hold of them. 

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft breaks the silence. He and his mother stare at the remaining Holmes. "Please... Tell me all that is you know about how Sherlock had ended up in this state," Mycroft insists.

"Mister Holmes, I keep telling you: I cannot tell you anything. I was sworn not to say anything... Doctor-Patient Confidentiality. I'm sure you'd understand," his mother replies stoically.

"Sherlock is a minor," Mycroft says.

"Who is nearing his eighteenth birthday," she replies.

"He is _still technically_ a  _minor_ ," Mycroft reminds her.

"But you are not his parent."

"I am his _brother_ ," Mycroft says almost -  _almost_ \- proudly.

"But _not_ his father," she snaps. His mother looks at Mycroft with as much fire in her eyes as the man in question. "I can't talk. I'm sorry," she adds the last part quietly, looking at a distance once more.

"Mum..." he dares ask. "Why can't you say anything about Sherlock?" 

"I was just about to ask the same question," Mycroft adds.

His mother sighs, looking absolutely distressed and just plain tired. "I just can't."

"No. Someone told you to keep quiet. It can't be Sherlock because you would have told us since he is still a minor and is in extreme condition. Have you told our parents of what happened?" Mycroft questions her.

She looks at Mycroft and at him before sighing. "They know about what happened to Sherlock."

Mycroft whispers, "I thought so."

He sees his mother's eyes widen and glint in dawning realisation for something he doesn't know but apparently what Mycroft had figured out.

"Is that why they left early?" Mycroft asks. "Did they tell you anything about who did this?" he asks. His mother's smile falls.

"They said something about the ones who hurt Sherlock, yes."

"Mum, come on," he sighs frustratedly. "Just tell me what's happening with Sherlock."

"...I can't say, little John."

His heart aches for his mother's use of his old childhood nickname.

"Mum-"

"It is not my business to tell."

That's what Mary had told him earlier. That's what everyone's been telling him for the past days. Does everyone know something he doesn't? Of course, they do. He hates how stupid he feels. He hates how his best friend is confined in a hospital and here he is, just standing there, not even knowing what the fuck is going on.

"Doctor Watson. Tell me... Please... He's my _little brother_... I have to know."

His mother looks at Mycroft and back at him. She stares at him longer and she sighs, shaking her head. She looks back at Mycroft. "I'm not sure if I can."

* * *

The doctor tells them that they're allowed to get inside Sherlock's room now.

"Go on, Mycroft," he tells him.

"No," Mycroft replies. "Go on, first. I still have something important to do."

"But-"

"Don't make me repeat myself, Watson."

He looks at the Senior Holmes Brother in confusion but continues to get in the room first. He thanks Mycroft for his connections on letting him inside the room.

Entering the room and seeing Sherlock in a hospital bed, sleeping, he freezes by the door. It hurts to see Sherlock this way. Sherlock looks half-dead. He has bruises and cuts all over his bare chest and arms. Goodness knows about his leg. His eyes seem to have deep bags underneath them. If it wasn't for the heart monitor beeping beside Sherlock, he would have thought that Sherlock is dead and this is his corpse. He shudders at the thought.

Has Sherlock actually been in this state for a long time? How did he not notice? Wasn't he at Sherlock's house earlier today? Or was it yesterday? Even so, how didn't he see anything? Was he that blind? Did he not want to see anything that doesn't see Sherlock as something too brilliant to break? Did he forget that Sherlock is just as fragile and vulnerable as any other human being?

He can't help but feel extremely guilty. Slowly, he makes his way to the seat beside Sherlock's bed and he can't help but stare at the still face on his best friend's face. Where are the snide comments? Where are the friendly insults? Shouldn't Sherlock be asking why on Earth is he looking and staring at him like the idiot that he is? Where is Sherlock? This isn't Sherlock. This is a living corpse. Fuck.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock..." he whispers, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's.

* * *

"Doctor Watson, a word?" he tells Doctor Watson just as John enter Sherlock's room. She nods at him in answer and he leads them further away from Sherlock's room in case John might hear them.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" she asks.

"Information," he replies.

She looks at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I need you to give me information."

"About?"

"Everything you know about Sherlock's medical history."

"The doctor had already told us all what we needed to know."

"You're wrong," he tells her. She looks at him just as intensely. " _You_ are Sherlock's doctor. So, tell me what has been going on for the past years."

"I told you. I _can't_."

"Doctor Watson. My _brother_ is in a  _hospital_ because of some  _extreme injuries_ made by someone  _I don't know_ but I have reasons to believe that you  _do_ know who. Somehow, I know my own parents are involved and there is a high chance they are also the ones who told you not to tell anyone anything. Not even me. Who do they know? _Who_? Do not forget, Doctor Watson. I am nearly at the same level as my own father's. I know how to extract information as cruelly as he can."

"I don't... I..."

"If you cannot comply by threats, let me also remind you of something: I know you have been fond of my brother lately since you have known each other for quite a long time. I know you care about him as if he is your own son. I have also noticed how you have acted when he was distressed earlier. You understand my brother and that is something not everyone can do. You want to help, and I can help you help him. But in order to do that, you need to help me, so I can help you, so you can help him. It is confusing and it is a chained interaction of giving help, but that is the only way to help Sherlock."

* * *

Should she tell him?


	22. Sherlock's Being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention some points:
> 
> 1\. The reason why the Holmeses didn't know that John was related to Doctor Laura Watson was because she has darker hair (one might say she's a brunette) than John's and that John resembles his father more than his mother.
> 
> 2\. The Holmeses didn't feel the need to know the faces of Doctor Watson's children because stating their name is enough to threaten her with.
> 
> 3\. There are so many Watsons in this world and so they wouldn't have had an instant deduction that John and the doctor were related.
> 
> 4\. If you paid enough attention to the chapters where John had visited the Holmeses, Sherlock's parents often forgets John's name because they didn't care about John himself. I should have mentioned that the Holmeses would have only cared if Sherlock had befriended someone related to their inner circle or someone from a higher level. 
> 
> As I stated here, John is insecure about his social status compared to Sherlock's, and so he is not related to any of Sherlock's parents' colleagues. Because of that, his parents didn't feel the need to know more about Sherlock's friend because they didn't think he was important enough. Oh, how wrong they are.

He can see the inner battle in Doctor Watson's eyes. She wants to say something but she can't. He immediately deduces that this is clashing to her moral and emotional instincts. Is it really that bad? Is she threatened to keep quiet? What is happening? Who are Sherlock's tormentors? Why didn't his parents say anything to him? 

He doubts his mother and father would leave the hospital like this. This is their son and he is in hospital. They wouldn't leave him for anything else... unless they know who the culprit is or are and are trying to catch the said culprit/s.

He doesn't say anything else and instead, waits for Doctor Watson to say anything. He can see that she is beginning to crack.

As Doctor Watson's mouth opens, they are interrupted by the door to Sherlock's room being opened. John comes out of the room, with his head down and his shoulders slumped as if defeated with the weight of the world on his shoulder. He immediately deduces that John is feeling guilt to whatever Sherlock is in. Why would he?

He looks at John as the teenager walks towards him and Doctor Watson.

He has to admit that he underestimated John and Sherlock's relationship. That Sherlock had trusted John so much and that John cares about Sherlock like no one has before. 

"Mycroft," says the croaky voice of John Watson.

"How is he?" he asks him, not really wanting to know the answer

"H-he's... er..." John clears his throat. "I, er... he..."

In all honest, at first, Mycroft would have thought that John might have been a part or a reason why Sherlock is in this state since he knows of why John and Sherlock had parted in the first place... or, at least, he could deduce what they had fought about from Sherlock's words when he found him after sneaking out and drugging himself up, and when he questioned him while he was drugged up from the morphine.

He knows that both John and Sherlock are in the wrong.

But despite trying not to, he can't help but feel more biased to defend his brother. Yes, Sherlock had said a few insensitive words to John and he knows John had called him the names that Sherlock had always been thrown at by. He knows those words might have pushed Sherlock to the edge. How does he know what might have hurt Sherlock's...  _feelings_ , you ask? Before John came alone, he was Sherlock's defender... until he was needed in the family business.

He shakes his head to see John still trying to compose himself.

"John," he says firmly.

John flinches at that and looks at him with a sad look in his eye. This is a look of a person who had seen something horrible... something utterly horrible. Is that really how terrible Sherlock's state is?

"Just... go see your brother, Mycroft," John finally replies in his firm and stern voice. He raises his brows at the fierce determination in the teen's eyes. He now understands that he can trust John with Sherlock's life...

"I will." He nods at John. He looks at Doctor Watson. "We will continue this after I visit my brother, understood?"

"I shall think about what you said in the meantime," Doctor Watson responds with a nod.

Finally, with a heavy heart (if he even has one), he walks into Sherlock's room.

He stops short by the door upon seeing the cold pale body that is supposed to be his impulsive hyperactive brother. He glares angrily at the skin and bones that should not be seen this prominently. He stares down at the cuts and the bruises that covered his brother's skin. 

Walking slowly inside and trying to compose himself and push down his anger and this other horrid emotion he is feeling, he closes the door slowly to give himself an excuse on why he isn't looking at his brother.

Once he has closed the door, he sighs and gives out a deep breath before turning around and trying hard not to throw something to the wall at the sight of his brother.

Sitting down on the chair beside Sherlock's bed, he looks at Sherlock's face. He sees and notices.

He observes.

He deduces how old the injuries are. He looks at the pattern of the bruises and the extent of how it was done. He notices how professionally it was done. This was not a mere fight with a bully. This is not some brawl. This is not done by bullying though some of the injuries certainly are. Seeing the difference of the bully-inflicted injuries and the other mutilated injuries, it was hard not to vomit his breakfast.

He hates himself for not seeing this sooner.

This is horrible. He is a failure of a brother. Now he understands why Sherlock ran away from his house not too long ago. It was not because he was seeking danger... It was because he was running away from it... and he made him stay with these... these...  _monsters_.

He doesn't want to believe it but the facts are here, right in front of him, in the form of his own brother, beaten and broken.

How didn't he see this before? He should be the smarter one between himself and his brother, should he not? Why was he blinded by the sweet words of these...  _beasts_.

Then again, Sherlock is an expert in hiding his secrets from anyone and everyone... Sherlock  _is_ the only person in the world who can predict his moves and some of his deductions... and the only one in the world who can fool him.

He can usually see past that... but this time... he knows that his brother did a lot of effort into hiding this secret from  _him_ specifically.

"Oh, Sherlock... What to make of you?" he whispers to himself.

In a short display of brotherly affection, he brushes Sherlock's hair from his eyes and sees his seven-year-old brother underneath the hospital sheets. He panics and shakes the thoughts out of his head.

He is going to make them pay.

His eyes blaze in anger. So...  _that's_ why Doctor Watson can't say anything. He gets his mind back to their conversation a few minutes ago.

 _"Have you told our parents of what happened?"_  
_"They know about what happened to Sherlock."_  
_"Did they tell you anything about who did this?"_  
_"They said something about the ones who hurt Sherlock, yes."_

Of course, they did. 

He finally walks out to see John leaning by the wall, with his head almost touching his chin. Unfortunately for John, he is wearing a dark grey shirt and he can make out some tear drops onto the shirt. Doctor Watson is standing beside her son, looking incredibly worried for the teen and seems to be murmuring some things to him.

Walking past the two Watsons, he simply says, "Doctor Watson, now, please."

Satisfactorily, he hears Doctor Watson follow him.

When they are far enough, he quickly turns around and looks at her dead in the eye.

"Tell me the truth. What do you know about Sherlock's injuries?" he asks her sternly.

"That bad?" she asks. Of course, she would think that he is ten times angrier upon seeing the injuries. Well, he is but not because it had just sunk in that someone had hurt his brother, but because he knows  _who_.

"Answer the question."

"They seem to be done horribly and not by one person."

He clenches his jaw. His patience is drying. He has the need to throw something at someone. Hopefully, it wouldn't be Doctor Watson since she could be useful to him and he doesn't want to feel the punch John would throw at him if he ever hurts his mother.

"I _know_ that. Tell me who did it."

"I don't know who-"

"Don't. lie. to me."

He feels slightly proud of himself for getting Doctor Watson to back up in alarm. Is he really that angry to scare a Watson? Or does he look dangerous enough to be seen as murderous? He stands up straighter, and closes his eyes to rid his face of all emotions: especially anger. He doesn't want to accidentally kill someone, after all. Goodness how many lives had dissolved in his hands.

"I'm not-"

" _Please_ , Doctor Watson." He sneers at her. "Do you _really_ like seeing Sherlock like this? I had noticed how fond you are of him. No, you  _care_ about my brother. If someone had hurt John the same way Sherlock had been hurt, would you tolerate this sort of torture?" He tells her accusingly.

"No! I would never!" Doctor Watson practically shouts. "No," she whispers. "That will never happen to John nor Harry. No. No..."

' _Indeed, it would never happen to your children because you would never hurt them... unlike those savages._ '

"Then you understand how much I really want to know what truly happened to Sherlock, do you not?" he tells her softly. "Tell me, for my brother, for John, for you... Tell me, _please,_ " he whispers the last part. 

* * *

Should she trust Sherlock's brother? Is he like the Holmeses? She will never know.

But she sympathises with him. If she had found out that James had been abusing John and Harry all this time, she had no doubt she would have wanted her husband dead. But she is walking on eggshells.

This is Mycroft  _Holmes_. The son of a powerful man and a powerful woman. The son of people who could kill with one snap of a finger. He and Sherlock are the spawn of an intimidating couple who are capable of killing in cold blood. She knows what the Holmes brothers are able to do. He knows they could be just as merciless if one pushes them to the edge. She knows Sherlock's brother would do all he can to retaliate against his own parents. The two Holmes brothers may be good people compared to their parents but they still have the power and the threat of bloodlust on their heads... whatever the cause is, it is still possible.

She had already seen the murderous look on the older Holmes brother's face before he had removed all emotions on it. She knows he is angry. She knows that he  _knows_ , at least, something about the torture. She knows he knows that she  _knows_.

She doesn't have any choice. If she keeps denying, there will be three Holmeses who would want her head on a platter. There will be three Holmeses who would threaten her family. She doesn't want that. She doesn't have any choice but to tell him.

Fuck Siger and Violet.

* * *

"Sherlock's being abused... by your parents."

He doesn't know what to do. He wants to vomit. He wants to eat his words. He wants to scream. He wants to sob. He wants to kill. He wants to be killed. He wants to torture or be tortured. He wants to do  _something_ but can't because he can't  _move_.

The confirmation had hit him like he was just hit by a massive truck in the face. He feels like a building had been demolished and is now falling around and on him, every debris hitting his entire body and entire soul. He feels like he is being mauled by a vicious beast until he dies and revived again just so he can be mauled again.

"How long?" he asks. His voice has changed drastically. He has never heard that tone of voice from himself before.

"Since he was born, apparently," Doctor Watson replies, sadly and angrily.

His hands tighten around his umbrella. He tries to keep calm. He really does.

That is... until he was being treated for the blood and the wounds on his knuckles for punching the wall several times.

He, Mycroft Holmes, lost his composure.

His brother, Sherlock Holmes, is being abused by their own parents. He hates his parents so much... 

And then a much dreaded question pops into his mind.

' _Why was Sherlock being abused and not me?_ '

He hates that question so much now. It's probably why sometimes Sherlock kept annoying him by doing everything he can to make him stay in their house. He now knows why, as a child, Sherlock had kept following him around the house or was near his line of sight. Why he was doing all he can to be in the same room as him. He should have known by then. Sherlock was immune in his presence. Sherlock was safe with him.

He should have thought that his parents were... were... He doesn't even have a name that would best fit his parents.

He blinded himself because he had always thought his parents were the best of the best. Instead, they had been abusing his brother.

Oh god, what kind of abuse? He didn't get to ask Doctor Watson. Is it more than the physical? How else was Sherlock hurt? He can't live like this.

"Sir, please, keep still, we still have to bandage up your hand."

After a while, he resigns and lets the doctor wrap a bandage around his knuckles, his assistant standing by the door, worried for him.

* * *

"Sherlock's being abused... by your parents."

Her own mouth has tasted sour as she says those words. The sentence she has always wanted to tell someone but never could. She had never said those words out loud before, ever. Not to anyone, not even her husband, nor herself. She never had the chance to say it... not even to Sherlock himself... because everyone involved already knew what was being done... and everyone involved doesn't want anyone to know, except her.

This is the first time she had said the blasted thing out loud.

It is one of the absolute worst things she could have ever said in her entire life... All because it is true.

He doesn't see the dawn of surprise from the young man in front of her. It was safe to say that he looks almost resigned, defeated, or accepting. She understands that he already  _knows_ before she had asked right now. It finally dawns on her why he was much more determined upon coming out of Sherlock's room. He was angry not because it finally dawned on him that Sherlock was hurt, but because he finally knows who the culprits are... and those would be his parents.

She can only imagine the amount of pain this would be for a young person to find out. From what she has seen, Mycroft Holmes idolised his parents. He thinks of them highly and trusts them completely. To find out the extent of his little brother's injuries and to find out that his own parents were the cause of these injuries... She shudders in behalf of the young man in front of him.

"How long?" he asks rather shakily as if he was confused, angry, sad, guilty, all at the same time. He sees Mycroft Holmes look as if he, too, was surprised at the tone of his own voice.

If Mycroft Holmes was already losing his shit at this point, she doesn't know how he will react on how long Sherlock had been tormented.

Finally answering his question, with a heavy heart, she answers, "Since he was born, apparently."

Sherlock's brother suddenly hits the wall beside him hard and she can hear the painful crunch of knuckle on solid wall. The brother keeps on yelling. He sees the umbrella Mycroft Holmes had was thrown with much force and had kept punching the wall. There is blood on the wall and she fears that the wall might be dented from Mycroft Holmes's fist. Again, it hit her full force that this man is capable of violence when provoked. She wonders if he is part of whatever organisation Holmes Senior is in.

The nurses and some of the doctors present are doing all they can to pull him away to stop him from hurting himself and trying hard to calm him down. His knuckles kept bleeding and so was his yelling.

She doesn't see him shed a tear. He didn't even tear up upon hearing the news.

Because Mycroft Holmes is not sad... no...

Mycroft Holmes is homicidal.

And looking and observing the already-calm young man, removing the hands of the nurses and doctors, and texting someone on his phone, perhaps not even feeling the pain on his knuckles, she knows that Mycroft Holmes is perfectly capable of killing his own parents for their betrayal.

Oh sweet merciful Jesus.

* * *

"Sherlock's being abused... by your parents."

He pauses and freezes and doesn't hear anything else.

He heard the words his mother had said. After Mycroft had called his mother and his mother telling him to stay put, being the person that he is, he tiptoed and tried to be as quiet as possible to follow them. He stood by a corridor near the two where he can listen in on them and paid attention to their conversation. 

He was just not able to expect this... news. Fuck. What the fuck. Fuck. Holy shit. His legs threaten to fall underneath him and he lets them, falling on the floor. He tries to lessen the sound of his knees hitting the ground by holding on to the wall for dear life. He doesn't want to be discovered by his mother, and especially Mycroft.

He hears someone yell angrily and so he turns to look who had done so.

Mycroft.

Cold calculating ice-king heart-of-stone-and-ice Mycroft is yelling and pounding his fist on the wall with so much force that his hand had bled the first time he had hit the wall... and he is not stopping. Nor does it seem that he can feel the pain on his hands.

He wants to do that too but he finds that he cannot move. He is completely frozen and numb. Maybe because he usually feels and understands the situation in a much later time? Perhaps it still hasn't fully sunk in to him what his mother had just stated. He looks up to see several doctors running towards and passed by him. He turns around the corner once more to see them pulling Mycroft away from the wall.

A few minutes later, Mycroft gets his composure back.

"Sir, please, stop using your hands, it won't be good for your knuckles," one of the nurses had said.

He sees Mycroft give that nurse a look and he shuts up. Mycroft grabs his phone and texts someone - probably not-Anthea.

After that, Mycroft was pulled to another room... but he sees the look Mycroft had given towards the room where Sherlock is laying. It was a look he has never seen Mycroft do before. It was ice, fire, peace, and war, at the same time.

Mycroft does care... and Mycroft doesn't cry.

One thing he is sure of: Mycroft will kill.

When Mycroft is gone from his line of sight, he finds himself in the verge of a panic attack.

Sherlock's being abused by his own parents... but Sherlock's parents were kind and nice to him. Oh fuck, this explains every single detail of that day... Was it really only the other day when they went there? Because fuck.

This explains why Sherlock had panicked after he broke his mother's tea cups. This explains why Sherlock's face was too red and not from blood flushing throughout his cheeks. He thought Sherlock had slapped himself. No. His mother fucking slapped Sherlock.

He punches the wall beside him. Once. Just once. That was all he needed.

Those fuckers will pay.

Now, he knows why Sherlock had wanted to leave so much. Why he left for a long time. Why he never bothered to show up. Why he didn't care that he was "hurting his parents" for being away for too long without so much as a call or a note to where he is. Why Sherlock didn't want to be found. Because Sherlock knows he would be taken back to his parents and get even worse punishment.

He remembers when Sherlock had almost told him.  _ALMOST_.

 _"Well, I never had time to explain myself to you."_  
_"Ahuh."_  
_"I didn't contact you when I left be... cause... because..."_  
_"Because?"_  
_"Because... Because I didn't want to be found."_  
_"Didn't want to be found?"_  
_"That's what I said, yes."_  
_"Why didn't you want to be found?"_  
_"Because I had to die."_  
_"...Sorry what?"_  
_"I said I had to die."_  
_"Yes, I heard that. Why? Why_ did _you have to die?"_  
_"I have made a considerable amount of... enemies."_  
_"Enemies? Who? Your bullies._  Enemies _... That's too dramatic, even for you. Sorry, Sherlock, but that's not a reasonable or good enough excuse to disappear for a whole year without saying anything._ "

Except. It  _was_. His enemies were his parents, and he wanted them to believe he was dead so they could leave him alone, at last. Sherlock almost told him before he stupidly interrupted him and assumed too much.

How horrible a person is he? The one time Sherlock finally wanted to confide in him, and he threw it back to his face. How can Sherlock still want him back after all this? Why does Sherlock let him go with the way he had treated him? He had treated Sherlock lower than shit. He treats Sherlock like he's a slave - a slave to his parents. Nothing to say. Forced to say what is good. Forced to obey his masters. Scared to tell what he did wrong. Scared to do wrong. Forced to flee. Longed for freedom.

Oh god. Sherlock's being abused by his parents.

"John?" He hears his mother ask him from above. He looks up to see his mother looking at him from around the corner, surprise etched on her face. "What are you doing there?"

His breathing quickens and he finds difficulty in breathing. His mother is beside him in an instant. Telling him to breathe deeply, to count from one to three, and shouted at someone to bring some water and gave it to him. As he gulped the water, he breathes heavily but he is calming down in a moment.

"What have you heard?" his mother finally asks.

"Sher... Sherl... H-he... abused?" he heard himself say. Not exactly intelligible but he knows his mother would understand.

Scared dark blue eyes meets resigned light blue eyes.

"Yes," his mother finally whispers.

He feels faint. He's in shock. He can tell that.

His mother instantly hugs him and tells him to calm down. She makes him hold on to his pulse and ordered him to count the beats on her pulse and try hard to get his own pulse to be in sync with it.

He tries to calm himself down but doesn't bother to tell his mother that her pulse isn't exactly beating in a calm manner either.

Fuck.

Sherlock, what the fuck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter you have all been waiting for.


	23. Small Conversation

A lump forms in his throat as he nears his best friend's room again. He doesn't want to go to Sherlock's room but he knows that he must. He will never rest if he does not look at Sherlock again after knowing... all that... He sighs and closes his eyes when he reached the door knob, resting his head on the door for a few seconds before being pushed by his own courage to open the door to Sherlock's room. He successfully suppresses a sob when he sees Sherlock on the bed again.

He had missed the signs. He wanted to be a doctor to heal people and yet he failed to see the things that were all obvious to this sort of torture on his best friend... His best friend who is practically dying with the injuries inflected on him.

The whole time Sherlock had been gone... For two years, Sherlock had tried all his might to disappear... All done because of the fear he has for his own parents - his seemingly nice and perfect rich and powerful parents. He bitterly thinks of how unfair the world is for Sherlock to be in this position - burdened by the advancement of his intelligence, bullied by his own peers, abused by his own parents, brushed off by the brother he secretly admires, and left by his best friend.

' _The last one shouldn't have happened_ ,' he thinks guiltily, looking at Sherlock's unconscious form again.

Fuck. His own father may be an alcoholic but he was never physically abusive... He can be a bit mentally and emotionally exhausting, yes, but he was never abusive... and he was only like that when he is drunk - something he is trying to avoid nowadays. His mother may have been a bit neglectful, but she never hurt him. She had only been neglectful because she had been so busy at work to make up for their financial problems. 

His sister may be going along the paths of alcoholism like their father, and they may not be getting along, but she never hurt her either. Yes, she is only hurting herself (especially with her break-up with her girlfriend, Clara).

His family may have been falling apart because of the lack of care with each other... He may have always been ignored by everyone... but they would never ever lay a finger on him (well, maybe Harry but that's because she's her older sister and that's their role in life - to be annoying).

Sherlock is fucking unlucky to have powerful parents who hurt him all the time.  He almost vomits at the many amount of times he had complained about his family to Sherlock, with Sherlock trying to reason with him that they are trying their best for him, and him lashing out on Sherlock for not understanding at all. Oh, how wrong he is.

He wonders what Sherlock might have been thinking. Sherlock must think that he is sooo lucky to have a family that doesn't hurt him. He stops himself from vomiting again. Even though his family could be deemed unhealthy, Sherlock would still think it's the best kind of family compared to his sadistic parents.

He shakes his head and looks at the lumps of flesh on the bed that he calls his best friend, Sherlock.

Even in sleep, Sherlock still looks exhausted - the bags under his eyes, the bruises, the cuts, and burns in his flesh and probably his mental health as well, and the- ' _Wait a fucking bleeding moment! Are those fucking bloody track marks?!_ '

He walks towards Sherlock and takes a look at Sherlock's left arm. They ARE track marks. Sherlock hates hospitals so much that he would avoid the hospital like it is the plague. He couldn't have got it here. What did Sherlock always say?

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth," he recites to himself out loud. With that thought in his head, he forms the only conclusion.

Sherlock's been using drugs.

He feels nauseous, and takes a step back, sitting on the chair behind him. It seems as if he doesn't know who he is visiting anymore. He doesn't know anything about Sherlock, his best friend, anymore. Who is this person?

No. Wrong. He's wrong. He knows Sherlock too much. He understands why Sherlock would do this. He still thinks what Sherlock did is stupid and wrong, but he understands why. Not all the reasons, but some of the reasons. He doesn't know the whole reality of why Sherlock would do this to himself, but he could guess. They will talk about his drug habit after he recovers.

For the meantime, he decides to stay for a while, and just watch Sherlock. Listen to him breathe. Thank whoever it is out there watching over them that Sherlock is alive.

The silence is interrupted by the opening of the door. He turns to see Mycroft enter.

"John," Mycroft greets him.

"Mycroft."

"Where's your mother?" Mycroft asks. 

He left her the minute he calmed himself after he found out the truth. "...I'm not exactly sure, why?" he asks. He waits for Mycroft to answer.

Mycroft looks at him as he stands near the door, using his umbrella for support. Looking down, he sees Mycroft's bandaged hand at his side. The sight of it brings him back to a few minutes ago. The scene Mycroft had made had stuck in his mind forever.

The seemingly unemotional man called Mycroft Holmes is as human as his seemingly unemotional best friend called Sherlock Holmes. Both ordinary human beings burdened with extremely advanced alien-like minds. He knows that both Holmes brothers have hurts but they would never show that they do until something had pushed them. In this case, that would be their seemingly perfect home life.

"You know," Mycroft says calmly, removing him from his drifting mind. Is this how Sherlock feels all the time about everything? He cannot blame him from wandering around in his own head.

"Know what?" he asks Mycroft. Mycroft moves his eyes from him to Sherlock. He follows his gaze so they would both look at this person who had caused them so much  _pain_... but not in the way others would have first thought.

He knows both of them are concerned... both of them are incredibly sick with worry about this idiot on the hospital bed... this idiot who has been enduring pain for goodness knows how long. It makes him sick.

He can't stop the thought that Sherlock is being bullied AND being abused at his house. That might be the reason why Sherlock never uses the word 'home' regarding his house. Sherlock doesn't have a home at the moment, does he? The family house should be the first home and school should be the second. Yet, Sherlock never feels safe anywhere, does he? Where would Sherlock feel that he is accepted?

His mind flashes to himself calling Sherlock a freak, a machine, everything that he had warned people to stop calling Sherlock by.

"You know what," Mycroft interrupts his thoughts again. He looks up from the voice and finally notices that Mycroft had moved to sit on the other side of the bed... so now they sit in front of each other with Sherlock between them.

"No, I don't," he says again.

Mycroft's jaws clench. "Don't act like you don't know, John. You _know_."

He closes his lips, not wanting to take this conversation longer than it should be.

"...You didn't?" he asks daringly but softly.

"Busy," Mycroft replies. He has been with Sherlock for so long that he understands that this is Holmesian language for, ' _I was distracted._ ' or ' _I took a blind eye because I was so busy._ '

"Busy?" he asks.

"Government," Mycroft replies calmly. He sees Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tighten, his knuckles almost white.

Turning, he looks at Sherlock again. "This is fucking- I can't even think of a word to describe this."

"I agree," Mycroft replies. 

A thought enters his head and he shifts on his chair uncomfortably, glancing at Sherlock's brother once, twice, thrice.

"What is it, John? Ask me anything," Mycroft says, eyes still locked on Sherlock.

"Were you ever...?" He doesn't need to finish the sentence.

"No," Mycroft replies. 

His eyes rise up. He did not expect that. "Why?" he asks. "Not that I want it to- I don't mean- I didn't mean that-"

Mycroft chooses to ignore his pathetic attempt to explain himself. "I don't know," Mycroft admits.

He shuts up.

Mycroft's eyes narrow at his brother, seeing the track marks on Sherlock's arms. "Brother dear, what on earth to do with you?" he asks nobody. 

"Your parents are monsters," he blurts out accidentally.

He can't seem to suppress the thought any longer. He feels so angry. Mycroft turns his head from Sherlock to him. He can see the equal amount of anger in the Holmes's eye. Anger that is not directed to him, but to his own parents.

"Mycroft, is there a way to get your parents in jail or something your people can do?" he asks.

"I'm afraid not."

He raises his brows at this and laughs disbelievingly. "Not even the British Government himself can do anything for his brother? Like, I don't know, lock up his abusers? Do you care that much for your abusive parents more than your innocent brother?" he accuses irrationally. ' _Your anger is clouding your judgment,_ ' Sherlock's voice enters his head. He shakes it to get Sherlock's voice out.

"Don't patronise me, Watson." Despite Mycroft's threatening gaze and voice, he doesn't cower over this powerful man. "I would be more than happy to lock up those hindrances. Alas, I may be in control of the government _now_ but I have learned that to make one's way through power, one needs connections from people. Yes, I do have these - incredibly  _strong_ connections. Unfortunately, I got this particular trait from our fath-  _him_... In conclusion, his connections are far darker, greater, and stronger than mine will ever be. There is little to no change to win a case against my own family. Rest assured, John, I will get to the bottom of this," Mycroft finishes coolly.

For a moment, he just believes Mycroft's words as if he knows everything will be taken care of with a snap. Although if he believes that Mycroft could do something about it, he knows that it would take a long time than what he'd hope.

"How would-?"

"Family business, John. I'm afraid it's confidential."

"Great," he replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"If you meddled in with this, John, the consequences would not be too pleasant, even for my tastes. I'm afraid you're already tangled up in this horrid mess enough. Don't get yourself into more trouble. It would take too much work on my part."

He only nods in reply, not bothering to remark with one of his sassy comments from exhaustion. They both look at Sherlock again.

"Don't let your parents near me, Mycroft. I might kill them accidentally. Well, intentionally."

"Not if I kill them first."

He chuckles, because he knows Mycroft has the cold capability of murdering his own parents if he can. Mycroft does, after all, care about his brother. The two Holmes brothers are complete idiots and egotistical to say how much they care about each other.

"How's your hand?" he asks to change the topic.

"Not entirely broken, just sprained," Mycroft answers. Silence. "What do you think, John?"

He hums in question.

"What substances do you think he uses?" Mycroft tilts his head, gesturing at Sherlock's track marks.

"I don't know. I didn't even know he uses. This- this is too much."

"I don't blame you. I had thought myself that he stopped when he was fourteen."

"Four-? Fourteen!? Bloody _fourteen_!?"

"John, do try to contain yourself from shouting."

"Sorry... but hell, _fourteen_?"

"Indeed, he started when he was about thirteen," Mycroft replies nonchalantly. "Might even be younger than that, I never knew exactly. He was incredibly good at hiding things from me. Didn't you know?"

"This sort of information is something I would not have ever forgotten."

"...I suppose so. His drug habit had allegedly started at age thirteen. I managed to force him into Rehab when he was fourteen. Although, I am not entirely too surprised that he is back in this state."

"Why?"

"Hmm. I suppose I should tell you. My brother called me while he was in hiding to find him. He called me because he accidentally overdosed. Flatlined, even." Mycroft tuts. "I would have guessed that he spent his time away with drug abuse - which would be my first conclusion on why he would run away... I do regret sending him back to the house to recover than making him go back to Rehab."

"YOU SENT HIM BACK TO YOUR PARENTS?!"

"John, please."

"Sorry.. sorry."

"Back to the topic. Yes, it is an action I will always regret. He spent half a year there." Mycroft raises a hand when he found himself almost shouting in displeasure again. "Yes, half a year. I believe it has only been a few weeks or maybe even less when he reunited with you once again?" He nods. "And here we are, at this point."

Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's arm. He feels like he's intruding in something private between the two brothers.

"You cause trouble everyday," Mycroft tells Sherlock, standing up.

"What do we do?" he asks, distressed, looking at Sherlock with panic rising up from his chest. Oh God, what the fuck do they do now?

"We send him to Rehab, of course."

"That would be hell... For him, it would probably be worse than hell."

"Not worse than our own house," Mycroft points out. He closes his mouth. "Though bad as it will be for my brother, it is the best hope we have to help him. I'll arrange another private facility for him since the previous one wouldn't want him back. I'll make arrangement so you will be allowed to visit him as many times as you want."

"What happened to the previous facility?"

"He left that particular facility with... events they won't ever forget."

Mycroft chuckles, looking at his brother with something that he can only describe as regret. God. His best friend, a drug addict. How could he have been blind with all of this?

"He will hate you for this, Mycroft."

"Better than continuing his substance abuse." Mycroft stands straighter.

Then, he understands one of the Holmeses' reasons why they do what they do. To protect and help each other despite doing the most horrible thing they could ever think of. Fucking dramatic martyrs.

"Well, good evening, John. It appears that I have work to do."

Mycroft opens the door and leaves without looking back at Sherlock. He sighs, looking at the other Holmes on the bed again. This time, he lets himself weep...

...but he finds out that he has lost the capability of weeping and is left with cold dry despair... and it feels ten times worse than crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's such a short chapter.


	24. Consciously Unconscious

In a few more days, Sherlock is finally going to rehabilitation. He had witnessed Sherlock desperately trying to talk Mycroft out of it—obviously, it was a failed attempt. Mycroft let him out of the "cage"—as Sherlock calls the hospital—after ten days of recovery and now, he's getting his arse _back_ to a rehabilitation centre.

* * *

**DAYS AGO**

Running. Where is he? The hallway...

The palace is somehow still in shape. There's nothing new... or is there? Should that door be chained up like that? He doesn't remember adding that small little feat. The ashen brown wooden door is cracked and ready to burst. Had he made sure to block this door before? If he did, it does not seem to be working.

He places a palm on the near-broken door.

Demons.

That's what is inside this almost cracked door. He backs up in horror at what is within. He remembers what is inside. There should be stairs if he opens that door that will lead to that chamber. The chamber where everything is locked up and chained. He doesn't truly know what is inside there which is why he kept this door locked... but now, the demon inside is just on the other side of this door and it wants to be let out. He can't let that happen.

"Sherlock..." he hears a voice somewhere inside his head say.

Shaking his head, he turns his focus back on the door. There is no use. He would not let these out and he would do his best to delay the demons'—because there would surely be more than one—actions as much as possible.

"Sherlock..." the voice says again.

Hold on. That voice is familiar. Who is it? John. It's John! John's here in the palace? Where is he? He turns his head on the two ends of the hallway. There is nothing.

Looking at the door one more time, he backs up and runs away.

He runs and runs and runs around the hallways of his mind. He runs up the many stairs of the palace. A few minutes ago, he crawled up in this particular hallway. Now, he only has to walk. But. Gravity is working its way and it is making him heavier with every step he takes.

"JOHN!" he yells for help. No. It is also his motivation—his inspiration—one who would help him back on his feet.

"JOHN!" he yells again. The end is nearing. He knows it.

"ONE MORE!" he yells. One more step. One more thing to do. One thing left to do. One more step to take.

Lights. All he sees are lights.

* * *

He's been sitting beside Sherlock's bed everyday for almost a week. He still wasn't conscious. It's probably because of the Morphine. He doesn't blame Sherlock. He would want to stay unconscious, too, if his life is utter  _shit_.

"Sherlock..." he starts. "I know you're still unconscious... and I know you will call me an idiot if—no, when—you see me right now. I know what the fuck I'm doing, to be honest. I know you'll say something along the lines that I'm doing something irrelevant—talking to you whilst you're unconscious. Well, I don't fucking care, alright? I want to say... Christ, even when you're unconscious, it's hard to say, er... It's just... I'm... sorry. There, I said it. I'm fucking sorry, alright? I've caused you pain even if you don't admit it. I know I did. I left you before you did so everything that happened is all my fault. Christ. Why is everything always _my fault_?!"

A nurse comes in to tell him what's happening and he apologises for yelling. The nurse leaves before giving him a sympathetic look.

He sighs.

If he had been observant enough, he would have noticed that Sherlock's other hand had twitched.

"Sherlock... I hope... Christ, I hope you don't think I'm such an arsehole and leave me again. Ha! That sounded cheesy. You'd hate that if you were awake. Nevertheless, I can't... Mary wishes her love for you, you know. I love her, too, Sherlock... and she understands. She talked me through it, you know? Well, I'm not really sure what she told me but I'm going to understand it more in the future. She knows everything—Mary. She knows you're a part of my life and she respects that I cannot just erase... this..." He gestures towards the space between him and Sherlock. "So don't you fucking dare erase yourself from my life... Fuck, where did this side of me come from? I sound like a fucking idiot, that's what... even I can see that." He laughs.

"John," Sherlock whispers.

He looks up in surprise. Sherlock's head moves from side to side. His face shows utter concentration. Sherlock's brows furrow. A whine and then a whimper escape from Sherlock's lips. Sherlock looks frustrated but determined.

He calls a nurse to go get a doctor because Sherlock seems to be fucking waking.

"Sherlock?" He stands up beside Sherlock's bed and leans down. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John!" Sherlock gasps.

"I'm here, Sherlock!"

"One more..." he hears Sherlock whisper. "One more. One more. One more. One more..."

' _One more?_ '

Sherlock's eyes snaps open, frantically looking around the room in a panic... that is, until, Sherlock's eyes lock with his.

"John..." Sherlock whispers, followed by a coughing fit.

"Okay, breathe, Sherlock, breathe..."

* * *

The doctors do their job with Sherlock as he goes outside and calls Mycroft.

"Hey, Mycroft, Sherlock—"

"—is awake, yes, I've been informed. I'm currently on my way there. Six minutes. Update me for the meantime."

Mycroft hangs up on him. The ridiculousness of the elder Holmes brother makes him roll his eyes. Of course, Mycroft know. He knows bloody well everything.

' _Except that his own parents are monsters and his brother is being abused._ '

He shakes his head to remove the dark thoughts in his mind.

Precisely six minutes later, Mycroft walks towards him in front of Sherlock's room. He stands up at the presence of Mycroft and walks towards him to inform him of everything.

"How is he?" Mycroft asks.

"Recovering... too quickly, I suppose. Though, he wasn't entirely conscious when he _woke up_. He was still a bit incoherent. Consciously unconscious. They got him under again." He smiles, shaking his head. "The doctors say he'll be up in no time. Prepare yourself, Mycroft. The annoying dick has returned." He smiles.

"Such colourful description of my brother," Mycroft replies.

"Seems perfect for me."

* * *

When one merges after swimming all day in the ocean, one feels drowsy and a tad bit delirious. That's what he feels right now. The metaphorical ocean would be his consciousness. What had transpired?

Ahhh, yes.

His parents. The threat of a rake on his back. John's house. Doctor Watson. The rush to the hospital. The Watsons meeting the Holmeses.

Oh no.

His parents met John's mother—his doctor. Oh no, he placed them in danger. Stupid! Stupid! The reasoning of the suggestion in his head that his parents might think that it was just a coincidence that Doctor Watson is near with them when he came in the hospital is retracted from his mind almost immediately.

Even though John's mother has darker almost brown hair, and that John resembles his father more than his mother... Their behaviour is the same. The doctor. The healer. The one who makes it better. John. Where is John? Did John come here?

"John's not here at the moment, brother mine," he hears Mycroft say beside him. 

Did he say all that out loud?

"No, you didn't, but I have lived with you for more than a decade. It is not difficult to read your emotions, dear brother."

"Stop it."

"We both know we can't."

"How long since I—?"

"A few days... then a few hours."

Sherlock huffs in reply.

"Oh, you're _actually_ conscious," he hears John's voice in the room, and see the future doctor enter his private room—probably Mycroft's doing.

"Where have you been?" he asks.

"Got your brother and I some coffee," John answers.

Yes, he sees John holding two cups of coffee and hands the other to his annoying brother.

"So, how are you feeling?" John asks.

"Uncomfortable."

"Understandable," Mycroft intervenes. "And what would have caused this discomfort, if I may ask?"

"A lumpy pillow," he replies sarcastically.

"Oh, need some help them?" John asks.

"No. I'm fine," he tells John, still eyeing his brother. "What are you looking at?" he asks his brother.

"I'm just surprised that besides from physical injuries, you had managed to make new self-inflicted punctures of your own," his brother tells him calmly, looking at his arm.

"New?" John asks.

He looks down at his own arm. It is just  _a few_ new punctures. He thought he was going to die weeks ago in the hands of his biological parents. At first, it was an innocent intake of Morphine to die down the pain in his body. One thing led to another. There they are—talking about new punctures in his body.

"Well, then, Sherlock... back on the sauce?"

Sherlock grumbles, not liking this topic. "What are you doing here?"

" _I_ phoned him."

"The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy—though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you."

Still looking at his brother, he crosses his arms, addressing John, " _You_ phoned him?"

"You had been awake for some time earlier, though you weren't making a lot of sense. ' _C_ _ourse_ , I bloody phoned him."

"' _Course,_ he bloody did. Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

"'We'?"

"Some members of your network. They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat in two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street..." Sherlock huffs in answer and rolls his eyes. "You're earning a reputation these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."

He looks at his brother irritatedly. "I do not _have_ a drug habit."

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him and grabs his phone.

"Oh, they won't let you use that in here, you know," John reminds Mycroft. His brother simply eyes John and continues.

Taking the phone to his ear, he asks, "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing _to_ find," he tries to tell him. Mycroft simply stares at him before walking slightly.

"Alright. Update me as soon as you find anything." Mycroft hangs up the phone.

"So, you're letting strangers into my place now?" he asks.

"Hardly strangers if you're the one who hired them to work for you. Highly loyal, to my surprise."

"It's a growing network..."

"You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"How often?"

"How often what?"

"You know what."

"I'm not an _addict_ if that's what you're worried about." He glares daggers at his brother.

"A teenage addict. New reputation, I suppose?" Mycroft says.

"I. am. not. an.  _addict._ "

"Then answering my question would be easy if you weren't." Sherlock keeps quiet. "Did you make a list?"

"Of what?"

"Everything, Sherlock. Everything you've taken."

"Bit much, wouldn't it?" John intervenes. "He wouldn't—"

Sighing, he pulls back his blanket and shows his foot to both John and his brother. There, written in a small messy manner, is the list. John looks at the words written there and looks up at him in shock.

"We have an agreement, my brother and I... ever since that day. Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house... There will always be a list."

"He couldn't have taken all of that in one go, could you, Sherlock?"

He looks away.

"Nobody deceives like an addict."

"I'm not an addict. I'm a user... I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes."

"For God's sake! This could kill you! You could die!"

"Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality," he replies.

"He nearly did," Mycroft suddenly says.

"What?" John asks.

"Mycroft—" he warns.

"Months ago. That day when we found him after his... seven-month hiatus."

"Seven months?" John asks. "You've been away for a year."

"I was in... house arrest for five months," he replies. Silence fills the room.

"Five months?" John whispers.

Oh no. He pissed off John again. He reminded him that he was back for five months and never visited him. He keeps screwing things up and it sucks.

"So, Sherlock, how often?" Mycroft presses on.

"You know, I just woke up," he reasons.

John laughs. "That won't work on us, mate, sorry."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft starts.

"I don't keep track on how often, _Mycroft._ "

"I searched and heard you kept _shooting up_ almost everyday. I think that counts as addiction, brother."

"You had me _searched_?!"

"I didn't... nor did I hear anything... but it seems that I am right—considering that you never denied my accusation."

He clenches his jaw from having been bested by his brother, again. "I don't shoot up _everyday_." 

It's the truth. He doesn't and didn't shoot everyday. In a week, he would have only had injected thrice. He sighs. He knows Mycroft will not let himself lose a fight. He would argue that thrice a week is just as horrid as everyday.

"Just tell me the dreadful news," he whispers quietly.

"What news?" Mycroft asks.

"Stop pretending to be innocent, dear brother. It doesn't work on you."

"You will be in a facility, of course... It won't be far from here, but far enough. I arranged the facility for John and I to visit you as often as possible. We'll be checking up on you, Sherlock... to make sure you are not up to something. I doubt you won't be."

"God, rehab again."

"You brought this upon yourself, brother mine."

"How long will it take this time?"

"Longer than last time."

"Last time..." John whispers to himself.

Sherlock grumbles, not bothering to say anything anymore.

"Sherlock, listen to me..." Mycroft starts, leaning forward.

"No. It only encourages you," he retorts, closing his eyes.

"I'm not angry with you..."

"Oh, that's a relief. I was _really_ worried..." He opens his eyes. "No, hold on—" he looks at Mycroft— "I really wasn't."

"I was there for you before... I'll be there for you again." He looks at Mycroft just as Mycroft looks at him. Softly, Mycroft continues, "I'll _always_ be there for you..." Mycroft looks down. "This was _my_ fault."

He shakes his head. "It was nothing to _do_ with you."

"I should have realised."

"Realised what?"

"That, in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy."

He sighs and rolls his head back. "Oh, for God's sake."

All three of them carry on in silence. Both Mycroft and John sit in opposite chairs whilst he goes through his Mind Palace, repairing everything that needs repairing. After a while, Mycroft gives him a knowing look—a look that means he knows that he has emerged from his wanderings.

"So, how long has this been going on?" Mycroft asks.

"What is?"

"This... treatment of you," Mycroft replies. John doesn't speak.

He dares glance at his brother to see the usual cold indifference he places as a mask on his face. Looking down, he sees Mycroft's knuckles turn white as it holds on to the handle of the umbrella he gave when they were younger. Probably knowing he is being deduced, Mycroft suddenly places his umbrella to the side and sits down beside him.

Odd behaviour from his brother.

"I don't think I understand what you mean," he daresay.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, how long has this _abuse_ been going on?" Mycroft asks him.

He hates that he flinches at the word. He hates that even he cannot think of the word in his own head. He isn't denying it. Of course, he knows what is being done to him... and yet saying the very word would make it immensely too great a word than it really does.

For him, it is just a way of life—avoid his parents, avoid his peers, live your life alone, be a smart-arse show-off in front of a willing audience. Now, all of this is going on.

"Mycroft!" he hears John reprimand his brother.

Instead of saying anything, he shakes his head.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft warns.

"It is not what you think. This is—"

"So am I just a delinquent when I say that I see the bruises in the shape of a hand which is immensely similar to the size of our _father_ 's hands? Or am I to turn away from the small cut on your cheek that can only come from a diamond ring as large as the one mother wears on her finger? Or do I ignore the welts on your ba—"

"Okay. Stop! Stop! Point made."

"Jesus, Sherlock."

"This is not what you think. This was all an accident."

"An accident done since when, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks almost angrily. 

No. His brother  _is_ angry. He has a good guess that  _that_ anger is directed at everyone. At him. At their parents. At John. At Doctor Watson. At himself. At his workers. At every person Mycroft crosses. He has not seen his brother this angry since his first time being caught bullied by his peers. Mycroft did a great job defending him when he was four.

"Since—my birth is an accident," he accidentally blurts out.

Mycroft's brows shoots up to his hairline. John looks down in confusion before both of them look at him in understanding.

He was... treated as so since his birth, because he was not wanted since the beginning of his life. Since his parents wanted a little girl. Since his birth signified as the replacement for their elder brother—Sherrinford. He was everything his brother (whom he had never met) wasn't. He was everything Mycroft wasn't. He is a defect of the Holmes blood.

He told himself not to listen to the liars he called his parents. His parents are deceptive people. No one should trust them. Everything they say through their mouths and actions are lies. Yet, their words stuck to him... and he cannot control them.

"Sherlock!"

He looks up to see John. Just John in the room. 

"Where's Mycroft?" he asks.

"He walked out."

"Didn't bear the news?" he asks without mockery.

"In a sense."

He hums in reply.

"Sherlock—"

"Not now, John."

"We have to talk about this."

"No, we don't." He adjusts the Morphine to its maximum and forces himself to go through unconsciousness.

He cannot believe he has been as desperate enough to get out of this conversation by rendering himself unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for not posting much. I just went through a horrible term last week and I have a week left of my term break for another horrible term. Why I chose to study Accounting is beyond me.
> 
> Here it is. A new chapter. I just realised that I don't really have any ideas how to end this fic. Seems this will continue on and on and on until I just grow tired of it. So expect more chapters... Though, I think I lost sight of what this fic is all about hahahaha... or maybe not.


	25. Something New

A groan wakes him up from his position in the chair beside Sherlock's bed. At first, he thought he was imagining it since Sherlock has taken a surprisingly longer length of sleep. He guesses that even Sherlock's subconscious doesn't want to deal with all the drama all these things seem to be causing.

Then again, if he was dealing with everything Sherlock has on his shoulders, he would rather want to stay asleep as well.

"J'hn?" he hears from the bed.

He blinks a couple of times before rubbing his face with his palms. Taking a deep breath, he leans forward from the chair to see Sherlock grinning at him.

"J'hn?" Sherlock asks again.

"Er, yeah, Sherl?" he asks, still tired from his sleep, but he fights his tiredness because Sherlock is  _awake_.

His sleeping position did  _not_ help him at all. He places a hand behind his neck to massage it. He better ask Mycroft for a cot in his room. They both agreed not to leave Sherlock alone in fear of an escape.

"Hello." Sherlock smiles at him. He looks at Sherlock, confused, before dawning realisation hits him.

He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he knows his best friend is currently high on morphine—too high than normal.

Giving Sherlock a look of exasperation, he wills his body to stand up from the chair. He groans at the soothing relief standing up gives him. He lets his bones crack back into place before walking towards the morphine and setting it on the appropriate amount.

' _Jesus, Sherlock,_ ' he thinks to himself, looking at how high the dose is placed.

"J'hn, you're m' b'st fr'nd," Sherlock slurs with his face buried on the pillow.

"Okay, Sherlock," he replies, humouring his best friend as he walks his way back to the chair beside Sherlock's bed. Crossing his arms in front of him, his head instantly falls down to sleep but he manages to wake himself up before he goes unconscious.

' _Damn, I must be really tired..._ ' he thinks to himself, knowing that he hasn't had much sleep lately because of this idiotic martyr in front of him.

"I d'n wanna lose you, J'hn," Sherlock says on his pillow.

"Right, right," he simply agrees to his high friend. His words are drug-induced. This is why Sherlock is saying these things.

He tries to be patient but a nagging feeling at the back of his head reminds him that this is Sherlock in a vulnerable state—a state where his inner and most barricaded thoughts are out in the open. A niggling thought tells him that what Sherlock is saying is raw because his mind is too open—is too penetrable to be protected.

"K'll me, J'hn. Pr'mise you'll kill m'."

John's eyes shoot up from Sherlock's closed ones. He can tell Sherlock is still awake but trying to relax. A grin is plastered on Sherlock's face as if they are in a sunlit meadow instead of a dark room in a hospital.

"I won't kill you, Sherlock," he tells him firmly.

"K'll me b'fore you leave m'." Sherlock's eyes open and gives him the most genuine smile he has ever seen on his best friend's face. "Pr'm'se, J'hn."

"I _won't_ kill you, Sherl," he says with much more sternness. 

"Then I'll do it m'self..." Sherlock sighs contentedly.

While his best friend smiles in a drug-induced state, pain creeps throughout his body and mind and soul. He hates this. He hates the fact that Sherlock says this as if he is completely sure he will be abandoned by  _him_ , nonetheless. No, Sherlock isn't just completely sure, he believes and expects it.

"You're a fucking idiot," he whispers in the dark.

"'m not 'n 'diot," he hears Sherlock mumble.

He snorts at that. Even when he is speaking gibberish, Sherlock will always deny that he can be a fucking clueless and massive idiot. Sometimes he wonders whether his best friend is the most brilliant person he has ever met or the stupidest. Perhaps both.

"I am _not_ going to fucking leave you, you prat," he says the last word fondly. Sherlock's eyes open and looks at him, "not anymore. Leaving you was a fucking mistake, okay? I admit it. See? I'm admitting I'm fucking _wrong_ , so you better put it in that _bloody big brain of yours_ that I care more about you than you think."

"J'hn?" Sherlock asks in confusion.

He ignores him and continues, "If you even fucking _dare_ try to _off yourself_ , I'm going to follow you in the depths of hell and kill you in eternal flames."

"H'll? Then you'll die..." Sherlock whispers.

"I don't fucking care, okay? If you die, I'll die with you, and then I'll kill you in whatever end we meet on the other side," he says with much raw emotion. 

What's happening to him? He supposes it's because of what has transpired for the past days. He hasn't done much thinking about what he found out since he has been too busy worrying about what is right in front of him right now. Never mind that his best friend is still drugged. Never mind that Sherlock probably won't remember this. On second thoughts, he supposes he should just carry on letting it all out since Sherlock won't remember this anyway. At least, he can still make himself think that he has talked about this to Sherlock. Never mind Sherlock's still out of it.

"You'ren't 'llowed to die!" Sherlock tries to exclaim but only ended up with him trying to sit up but carelessly falling back to his pillow.

"Then _you_ must not die," he bargains.

"B't wh'n you leave...?" Sherlock asks him.

That's the word he hates—' _when_ '—because for Sherlock, it definitely is definite. It is written in stone. Sherlock fully believes that he will be left alone.

"I am not going to leave you. I promise," he swears, "and I will not die if you promise me that you will keep yourself alive."

Sherlock yawns. "Okay, promise, promise, promise, promise..." Sherlock smiles.

He sighs, looking at his friend again. "Sweet dreams, Sherl."

"M'night, J'hn..."

* * *

"So, the rumours are true, then..." he hears the person who had entered his room say just as he was starting to rouse himself from his slumber.

He peeks and sees John who seems to have been sitting beside him, with his head turned towards the source of the voice. That's when he sees...  _him_.

The jet black hair. The playful psychotic eyes. The Westwood suit. Damn.

"Sorry... You're—?" John asks politely. Oh, John.

"A mutual friend, my dear John Watson."

"How did you—?"

"How did I know your name? Well, considering that you were once the school captain for the Rugby team, I would have known your name, wouldn't I?"

"You were in—?" John starts, standing up, but was cut off.

"That's not all, is it? Oh no, you're building up a good name in uni, too..." 

God, he hates that smirk—that stupid psychopath smile.

"Why are you h—?"

"Please, allow a person to visit a very dear old friend," he says with such mocking plea, a hand on his chest—an obvious display of mock sympathy. God knows John wouldn't want to deal with this sort of nonsense.

"He never mentioned you," John replies stoically, standing up straighter with his fists on his hands—the future soldier behind the future doctor.

"He's been keeping me a secret now, is he?" he asks as if hurt. "Well, that certainly hurt, I can tell you that. Friends should not go unmentioned. Don't you think so, _John Watson_?" he says John's name as if there is so much meaning behind the name.

"Who are you?" John asks, taking no more shit—that's the only way he can describe John's total defiance and unimpressed impatience.

"Jim Moriarty... _Hi_."

"Never heard of you," John replies maliciously.

"Yes, I have heard of your loyalty. You're like a puppy, aren't you? The puppy of dear old Sherlock? Hopping around his master, begging for attention..." Moriarty says mockingly, walking around the room and looking around as if he is in a museum, with his hands in his pockets. "Aren't ordinary people _adorable_?" Moriarty's eyes roam around until it settles on him. He quickly closes his eyes, knowing that he doesn't need to, but John turned around as well and he has to. "I should get myself a live-in one. It'd be so funny..."

"You're not welcome here," John tells Moriarty.

Moriarty grins and turns to John. "How would you know? You don't know me. I might as well have some significant importance to Sherlock. Who are you to know who is and is not welcome here?" he places a finger on the bedside table, as if checking for dust. Unfortunately, he cannot see John anymore because of Moriarty obstructing his view. Moriarty frowns. "You better stop hurting my feelings, _John_."

"Don't call me John."

"Why not?" Moriarty grins, turning around to face John. John doesn't reply. "Such a brave and loyal _puppy_. You're like a knight of Camelot. No no no. You're King Arthur. All the power and all the strength is in your hands but you would still listen to the great and powerful _Merlin_."

At the last word, Moriarty looks down at him with a smirky grin etched on his face. He looks up with murder in his eyes but he doesn't say a word. No. He knows what Moriarty wants, and he wants a private conversation with him.

"You better leave before I make you," John tells Moriarty with controlled anger.

"I don't know why you bother with this." Moriarty gestures at him like he is a sack of rotten tomatoes. "I mean, look at him, you can do _a_ _lot_ better."

"No," John replies.

No, John. You're feeding him. You're showing him how much you are loyal to me. You're showing him how much you can be an asset. You're showing him that he can get to me through you. This is not going to end well.

"Very interesting, John Watson. Very _interesting_ , indeed," Moriarty taunts, "but let's not prolong this any further. I want to be alone with this old lump."

Moriarty gestures to him. The taunts make him feel like they are merely teenagers who are fighting over some stupid game instead of teenagers who are fighting over national security. He feels annoyed rather than hatred. It took a great amount of self-control not to punch Moriarty in the face for being annoying—though that would be John's job.

"I'm not leaving you two alone."

"No?" Moriarty asks, finally walking away from his bedside and towards John.

John has his hands on his side, refusing to back away. He looks at Moriarty straight in the eye—showing incredible loyalty and discipline. He notices John's twitching fingers—and it usually happens when he is on the verge of punching someone in the face. He knew it wouldn't be wise to punch Moriarty himself. John wouldn't let him take his opportunity.

"Well, let's just say that a sexy man such as myself—" John scoffs but Moriarty ignores him—"loves a good book. Who doesn't love a good book, John Watson?"

"What are you doing?" John asks irritably.

"Have you ever read Harry Potter, _John_?" With that, John looks at him more seriously. Moriarty's voice turns colder. "Don't you just love that story? I definitely have a lot of favourite characters. What about you, John? I bet your favourite character is  _Harry_."

"Stop it," John says under calm rage.

"I think  _Harry_ is interesting, though," Moriarty continues, ignoring John altogether, "and if  _Harry_ is around London, I'd be happy to see a character from a book. Don't you? Especially if  _Harry_ is in a little diner near a house filled with three other people whose surnames are _Watson_. I could carry on but you probably know the rest of the story. You've probably read the books, after all. I don't want to bore you." 

He never knew how much an innocent smile makes you want to murder the one who wears it.

"If you're still not convinced, you might want to look down on your shirt."

He has made a decision. He is going to kill Moriarty himself for even daring to target John himself with a sniper. He swears it.

John takes a deep breath and exhales before saying, "Shoot me for all I care."

He sees Moriarty smirk. "Oh, that's not what I had in mind..." John looks down and looks confused since the red dot seemed to have disappeared. "Well, go on, then. Why don't you go to the other side of dear old Sherlock's bed and see for yourself."

John narrows his eyes at Moriarty but slowly walks to the other side. Moriarty looks down at him with a knowing glint in his eyes and he stares back with a raised brow and a knowing look for himself.

He hears John's intake of breath behind him—the one that means ' _Oh shit_ ' and he instantly knew that a sniper is targeting  _him_ this time.

"I won't let you—"

"Trying to go between yourself and the dot is meaningless, John. I have snipers in every angle and you cannot barricade Sherlock from all of them."

John is willing to go between him and a bullet? What?

John exhales deeply. Moriarty continues, "Now that you know how much power I have gathered in the palm of my hands, it would be a wise decision, _doctor_ , to leave me alone with Sherlock... Give us some privacy, if you will."

"If you hurt him—"

"Don't you worry, John. I only want to chat with the patient. It won't take long. Besides, I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"Don't know what you'll get out of him, he's sleeping."

"I'm sure I can find a way."

"If you _dare_ lay a _finger_ on him, I'm going to—"

"I'm not, Johnny. Don't you trust me?"

John snorts disbelievingly behind him.

"I'm giving you five minutes," John says.

"I don't think it's your place to make a bargain."

"I am giving. you. five. minutes."

He hears Moriarty's intake of breath—an amused and delighted one. "Very well."

He sees John walk around the bed and angrily walk towards the door. John pauses and he quickly closes his eyes when John turns to look at him. He immediately knows that John will be waiting by the door the whole time. He hears the door open and close.

"John isn't here anymore, Sherlock dear. You don't have to pretend that you're sleeping with little old me... Atta boy..." He opens his eyes to see Moriarty's face right in front of him. "Hello, Sherlock..." Moriarty stands up straight. "Miss me?"

He rolls his eyes and sits up from his bed. "Not one bit."

"I'm hurt."

"Good."

Moriarty chuckles. "Such a shame you're so cold to me. I'm really sensitive, you see, and—"

"What do you want?" he asks, trying to mask his exasperation.

"Why, to chat, of course," Moriarty replies, sitting on the chair John was sitting on.

"So I've heard," he replies, looking at the door pointedly. "We've been chatting and we've had small talk. So, what do you want?"

"Ever so straight-forward."

"We've never talked before."

"We've talked briefly."

"Oh yes, I was a bit... detained at the time," he replies, remembering when Moran had beaten him up just after he revealed himself to John that he was back from house arrest. "I was quite busy."

Moriarty laughs. "Yes, I do remember extensively. You're Sebastian's favourite punching bag, you know. He told me."

"You'd be blind not to see it."

"Blindness won't stop me from knowing, Sherlock. I still have four other senses." Moriarty grins. "Besides, you're popular to those who need punching bags, aren't you? Are you considering going to gyms for boxers? They might like you better than a normal sand-filled punching bag."

"No," Sherlock replies casually, "I already spent an incredible amount for my tuition in university. No time for the gym, I'm afraid. I think I would rather carry on with Chemistry."

Moriarty grins. "Remember what I told you, Sherlock? All those months ago? When you were being... beaten up?"

"That you would reveal your background in time?" He smirks. "Specialist-in-training, you said, if I remember correctly?"

Moriarty smiles. "Good. You remember. I suppose I should tell you that I have known you for a long time—a really long time."

"How would you have known me?" he asks.

"Such modesty, Sherlock, how very unlike you."

"Trust me. I'm not."

"Carl Powers," Moriarty tells him and the gears of Sherlock's brain goes into over-drive, "I believe you know him? Dear old Carl?"

"Carl Powers—champion swimmer who went to Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool—a tragic accident."

"So you  _do_ remember him?"

"Why do  _you_?"

"I suppose there was something... fishy about it?" Moriarty asks.

"Nobody thought so—nobody except me. I was just in Year Five at the time. I suppose you had something to do with it."

Moriarty smiles innocently. "Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing." He shrugs.

"He was in Year Seven. I still remember him," he mutters.

"I was at Year Six at the time." Moriarty smiles. "I remember it all—seeing him gasping, drowning, screaming for help. I was there, you know?—in the tournament and the exact moment he died. He even saw me when he was drowning. He knew I murdered him. He should be honoured that I killed him—my first kill." Moriarty smiles as if he is talking about a beautiful memory. 

"What did you do to his shoes?"

"His shoes?"

"They weren't there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think that it was important—"

"—one of man's biggest flaws—"

"—and he'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes."

"I still have it... won't tell you where, though. It's a trophy of mine, you see—to commemorate my first kill."

"So, what did you do to kill him?"

"It's so boring with me telling you all this, isn't it? I'm not a show-off like you, _Sher_ lock. I don't need to tell you how beautifully I constructed the whole thing."

"You were just a teenager."

"That doesn't define anything. You, of all people, should know that," Moriarty tells him. He hums in reply. "It was poison," Moriarty finally says. His head snaps towards Moriarty's.

"Poison?"

"Clostridium botulinum," Moriarty explains.

Sherlock leans back. "One of the deadliest poisons on the planet... Carl suffered from eczema, according to his medical health records. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and he drowns... Virtually undetectable... An autopsy wouldn't have known if they weren't specifically looking for it."

"You really are always a show-off, aren't you, Sherlock?" Moriarty laughs.

"How would you know I've always been a show-off?"

"I've been observing you for a long time, actually. Who wouldn't be aware of someone who keeps getting in my way? All those school thefts, school food poisoning, hacking... The two years you left, my, my... You think I wouldn't notice when some of my clients tell me someone is sabotaging my work? People always run to me. I'm not a specialist-in-training anymore, Sherlock. I'm a _specialist_ , you see... like  _you_."

"'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my best friend's nasty sister.' 'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get all A-stars?'"

"Just so..."

"Consulting criminal... brilliant."

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to _me_... and no one ever will."

"I did."

"You've come the closest, and now you're in my way—"

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty shrugs, smiling. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now... You've known how much that I can do... Cut loose all those people, all those little school problems, even started killing people from the outside to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear... Back off."

"People have died."

"That's what people DO!"

"No shouting in the hospital, James Moriarty."

"Suppose I should follow rules, then, shall I? Don't want to upset the patient now, do I?"

"No... ... ... ... ...I will stop you."

"No, you won't..." Moriarty looks at him for a few more moments before standing up and walking towards the door. "Well, I better be off... So nice to have a _proper_ chat..." Moriarty reaches the door. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you later."

"No, you won't!" Moriarty says in a high-pitched voice and opens the door. 

He sees John, waiting by the door. Moriarty gives John a brief smile and a wink. John stares at Moriarty angrily. Before anyone says a word, John decides to pull the lapels of Moriarty's coat. Meanwhile, he flinches from the bed but his aching body prevents him from doing anything else besides sit there.

"Leave us alone," John growls.

Moriarty laughs. "Oh, _good_! Very good!"

John enters and blocks the window using Moriarty. "Your sniper... If he pulls the trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we'll both get shot."

"He's sweet," Moriarty says, addressing him, "I can see why you like him. Although, people do get sentimental about their pets... They're so _touchingly_ loyal," Moriarty says the last words, giving John a pitying look, "but— _OOPS!_ " John stares at Moriarty. "Tick tock goes the clock for Harry and for Sherlock," Moriarty whispers.

John's eyes widen in dawning realisation.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty sing-songs. 

John removes his grip immediately. Moriarty chuckles at that and steps back, holding his hands up to the window—most likely signalling everyone to hold. Moriarty looks at John briefly before addressing him once more, brushing his hands down on his suit to straighten it.

"Westwood!" he says, gesturing to his suit. "I suppose you two won't be leaving me alone much."

"Suppose so," he replies. John stands beside him stoically with his eyes locked on Moriarty.

"D'you know what happens—if you don't leave me alone—Sherlock, _to you_?"

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," he replies, sounding as if he is bored, rolling his eyes in the process.

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaces at the idea. "N-no, don't be _obvious_. I mean, I am gonna kill you anyway... _someday_... I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it for something special... No no no no no... If you don't stop prying, I will  _burn_ you... I will _burn..._ the  _HEART_ out of you."

"I was reliably informed that I don't have one," he replies. He sees John glance at him from the corner of his eyes.

Moriarty gives him a knowing look. "But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty dares glances at John at that and he wants nothing more than to strangle the man himself. If he dares lay a finger on John—

A phone call interrupts them.

"Hello?... Yes, of course, it is. What do you want?" Moriarty looks back at him and mouths, "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," he mouths back mockingly.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" Moriarty roars. He and John look at each other at that. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will _sssssskin_ you... Okay, wait..." Moriarty takes a few steps forward and looks at him. "Sorry..." Moriarty turns around to face the window and snaps his finger. He starts to walk away after that. "You'll be hearing from me Sherlock." With that, he replaces the phone to his ear and speaks to it, "Now if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes..."

He believes Moriarty has an obsession with shoes.

Moriarty leaves the room. When the door closes behind him, John falls down and sits on the ground, growing faint.

"What happened there?"

"Something new..." He grins. He looks back down at a pale John. "Thank you for... what you did there... that was... good."

"I'm glad no one say that."

"Hmm?" he asks, trying to calm down his panic attack. He can hear the beep of the heart monitor beside him spike up. He was just glad that it didn't spike up the whole time Moriarty was here.

"Me, pinning Moriarty up on the wall... People might talk."

"People do nothing else."

The two smile at each other stupidly.


	26. Say Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise for taking too long to update this. I'm running out of ideas.

After days and days of arguments, it has become official. In a few more days, Sherlock is finally going back to rehab.

He has managed to talk to Mycroft to keep Sherlock out of rehabilitation for about a week. He knows Sherlock and it would not be healthy for him  _at all_ if he was locked in some secluded hospital for weeks on end. Sherlock may go mad, and the people taking care of Sherlock  _will_ go mad.

He has already witnessed Sherlock's black moods... and to think that withdrawal from drug use will make Sherlock's black moods worse makes him shudder.

Mycroft let Sherlock out of the "cage" (as the latter calls it) after ten days of being admitted in the hospital, and Sherlock's now getting his arse back to a rehabilitation centre.

Both of them are currently sitting in Mycroft's flat. He sits on the sofa, watching the fire dance in the fireplace right in front of him.

Sherlock's on the armchair on the sofa's right, reading a book as if nothing had gone out of the ordinary these past few days. Sherlock seems to be quite peaceful right now, and he's grateful... but he doesn't know how Sherlock does it.

True, Sherlock had been severely frustrating to deal with for the past four days but it's understandable considering his withdrawal from his drug use, as well as knowing  _why_ he was admitted in the hospital in the first place... his  _parents_.

He's been eating himself up these past few days with Sherlock. He has pondered over whether he should ask Sherlock about his relationship with his parents or not. He has also pondered over whether he should ask Sherlock about the drugs or not...

He has a plethora of questions besides the first two mentioned: where did Sherlock go when he ran away from his house? What did Sherlock do to survive his time away? Why didn't Sherlock tell him anything? Why didn't Sherlock ask Mycroft for help? As he continues to think, more questions enter his head and he wants—no— _needs_ the answers for most of them...  _honest_ answers.

He's had enough of cryptic answers and riddles Sherlock had been giving him for the past years of their friendship. He wants the raw truth and even if the consequence of knowing the answers would be painful, then... so be it.

"You missed the family dinner," he suddenly blurts out as a conversation starter.

Sherlock slowly looks up from the book he is reading and feels him stare at him. He, in turn, keeps staring at the dancing and roaring fire right in front of him.

"Oh," Sherlock finally manages to say after a long period of silence. After a pause, Sherlock adds, "I... apologise. I was in the—"

"—in the hospital... Right... Yeah... I know... I—I was there..." He nods profusely, still not looking at Sherlock, and unsure whether he should continue on.

He hears Sherlock close his book loudly. From the corner of his eye, he can make out Sherlock putting his book down on the table between the end table beside the armchair, and leans back—he has Sherlock's full attention.

"What is it?" Sherlock finally asks.

He decides to back down. "Nothing," he tells Sherlock, grabbing his phone casually and pretending to read something in it.

"You lie—"

"No, I don't."

"—and you are not using any effort to mask it. You want to talk."

He sighs in defeat, finally looking at Sherlock. "Right, yes, well... That's me caught, then."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head at the blond.

He narrows his eyes at Sherlock. "Do you really want to hear what I think?... or _feel_ for that matter?"

"Yes."

"Mind you, this is not an input based on deductions and observation. This is an opinionated comment based on fact."

"Carry on, then."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Really?" he asks one more time.

Sherlock sighs, annoyed. " _Yes_."

"Aren't you usually against talking about sentiment?" He raises a brow at Sherlock. This time, it is he who tilts his head at the other.

This time,  _he_ observes Sherlock once more. There he is, the dark-haired teen, sitting with a body language that screams fully attentive focus. Sherlock is clearly listening this time, and not shutting him out or filtering him out.

This time, Sherlock is completely cooperating, and he wants Sherlock to tell him the truth, and to talk to him about his parents... He was right on his first assumption—now is the right time to talk to Sherlock about all of this.

He just doesn't know how to start.

"You might as well just _say it_ right this moment rather than wasting both of our time by turning the conversation in circles to... _lessen the_ _blow_ , as you all say it. I need more time to prepare before I go to _rehabilitation_ in five days, eleven hours, aaaaaaand—" Sherlock looks down to check on his watch—"forty-nine minutes."

"I know," he finally tells Sherlock.

"Of course, you know. I _just_ told you."

" _No_ , Sherlock... I  _know_."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, moving closer. "Know? Know what? Know _about_ what?"

He licks his lips and looks down on the floor, not wanting to see Sherlock's face as he finally says what he had wanted to say this whole time.

"Your parents."

He hears Sherlock suck in a breath and see him, in the corner of his eye, lean back on his armchair.

"...What do you mean?" Sherlock asks after another long time of silence.

He looks up to stare at Sherlock who is wearing his cold and protective mask once more. Sherlock has closed himself off. Sherlock is trying to act all fine when he obviously is not.

He can see past all that. On the contrary to what others believe, he is not an idiot. Hell, he is known to be one of the school swots, and would be thought to be the school swot if he was not famous for being the Captain of the Rugby Team and for being quite the ladies' man.

"John?" Sherlock asks once more as his throat closes up.

"I just—I, er—I know how your mum and dad—your parents... treat you... or should I say...  _mistreat_ you..."

He sees it—a flicker of emotion danced in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's mask had fallen for a moment. He sees a few seconds of pain, the nanoseconds of heartache, the picoseconds of absolute loss and despair.

Sherlock whispers, "Mis-mis-mistreat? Me? I—I'm not sure w-wha-what-what you mean...?"

He shakes his head. "Sherlock, all I want... is for you to be truthful to me. I just want you to tell me what goes on in that bloody big head of yours—but not your thoughts on deductions. I want you to tell me about the Sherlock _beyond_ the deductions—the one who refuses to come out of the shadows—your mind's shadows."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Sherlock, I just want you to talk to me."

"But I—but I _am_ talking to you?"

"You do... You are... but you never _say_ anything."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

"Why did you never tell me?" he asks suddenly. He closes his eyes, cringing. That was not at all what he wanted to ask. That was a stupid move of his. He should have started with something simpler, subtler, or even... lighter.

"If you were in my shoes, would you?" Sherlock asks, looking at him straight in the eye without a thread of emotion on his face. Looking at Sherlock, he looks as if they were merely discussing about their school lessons instead of... his life.

"I would have—" he starts but Sherlock cuts him off.

"No. Would you have told _me_ about it? Of all people? Would you suddenly tell me about what you would have been going through?"

"I might have, yes... At some point, I might."

"No no no no no," Sherlock says with a small smile appearing in that sneery painful way. "Let me say that again since I suppose, you _would_ have told me... and I may have even helped and done something."

His brows furrow at Sherlock's words. "So, you mean to say that you did not tell me about your... living arrangement because you believe that I will not do anything?" he asks, keeping his voice calm. It was accusing—his words—but they were said calmly.

"What? No! Don't be stupid. No," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. It reminds him of Sherlock being his usual tactless self which makes him feel calmer for a moment before he remembers once more what they are talking about.

"Then what do you mean? Say _something_ , Sherlock. I don't want you to just talk to me. I want you to  _say something_ to me, for God's sake."

"I didn't want to tell you anything because I know you would have done _something_ ," Sherlock finally tells him, sighing in defeat.

He grows even more confused at Sherlock's words. "Might want to elaborate, Sherl... because I don't understand."

Sherlock emits a sad chuckle. "You should have that on a T-shirt."

"Sherlock, _please_."

The teen in front of him sighs. "I did not want to bother you with my predicament... It's not important anyway, and you do not deserve that much." Sherlock says, looking at the fire.

"Not— _not important_?" he asks, and Sherlock looks at him. A growing emotion of sadness and anger lights up from his chest. "No, Sherlock. You shouldn't say things like that. You can't tell me that I think of you too little that your problems aren't a big deal, because they are. Sherlock, those are entirely _important_ problems. I don't want to remind this for you but hell, Sherlock, your parents fucking  _abused_ you."

Sherlock flinches at the a-word and sighs, still staring at the fire.

"I—I know... God knows I know... but... John—" Sherlock looks at him intently—"you tell me not to talk, but to say something. I merely want to ask of you a favour. I do not want you to _hear_ what I'm saying. I want you to  _listen_. I want you to understand what I mean. It is rather difficult for me to make you understand something I am still trying to comprehend myself..."

"What is it?" he whispers to Sherlock, leaning forward to  _listen_.

"I am... highly aware of how important the situation is. _Of course_ , I know. I acknowledge its effect on me, and I know how much one would expect me to feel about it. I am also highly aware of how much you think highly of me. I found out from my brother about how you had been when I left the face of the Earth..." Sherlock shakes his head.

He decides to have a  _talk_ with Mycroft about telling Sherlock things about him without his permission.

Sherlock continues, "It may be the detoxification talking but I do not want you to worry, John. I know you, and I know how much you worry about me. You worry for my well-being—everyone knows that. You worry for my actions. You worry for my health. You worry about the two years of my absence. You worry about... about my... _parents_..." Sherlock clears his throat. "You worry about your sister. You worry about your own parents. You worry about your sanity..."

He notices Sherlock's fist ball up as he enumerates everything he is saying.

"No, John. I don't want that for you. You have had enough worrying on your plate alone. This is not me keeping you in the dark. That is not my intention. I am also not saying that worrying about me is a waste or a burden. I am not saying that I am not enough and that I am unimportant..."

He hears Sherlock's doubt on the last two sentences but he lets Sherlock continue talking.

"What I am saying is that I do not like to see _you_ worry. I don't like seeing your face crunched up as you think about things too much. I don't like seeing the gears in your head turn too quickly to a conclusion and think differently about a situation... I just—" Sherlock sighs—"I just don't like you _worrying_. You do not deserve to worry about anything. You're  _John Watson_. You deserve better."

His jaws are clenched as he tries to fight back some unmanly tears from his eyes. He wants to kill every single voice in his head that is pushing him to cry. He must not lose his composure in front of Sherlock. It will only end in more chaos. He sighs, closing his eyes, and being grateful none of his tears fell when he did.

"Sherlock..." his voice hitches.

"...John..."

Thoughtfully, he starts, "Erm... hmm..." He pulls himself. "You—you told me once... that you weren't a hero... Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were _human_  but let me tell you this: You are the best man, and the most human... _human being_ that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me otherwise, and so... there."

He blows out a breath and slightly whimpers.

"I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much. You are the bravest self-sacrificing person and friend the world has ever had to set its eyes on." He sniffs. "Sherlock, I never needed you to do all these... these _things_ for me... I—I don't care if I worry... It's part of being human— _worrying_. I worry for you because I... I care... about... well, _you_... Y—you may not see it, Sherl, but I do—I care a lot about you—"

"I know you do."

"—and that shouldn't be something you needed to push yourself away from... I—I want to be here for you, yeah? You—you are one of the few people that I love and care about most in the world."

Sherlock blinks and stares at him like he has grown five other heads. He himself blinks a few times from how much heartfelt his words had come to be... but he shakes his head at the disbelieving look upon Sherlock's face.

"John—"

" _No_ , Sherlock, I know what you're about to say. My worries and my concern do not need to be a burden for you. Never you mind all that, Sherlock. I need to hear what's bothering you just as much as you tend to know what bothers me... I get it now, Sherlock. I need you as much as you need me. There's no use in hiding it. Hell, with the week we've been through, I cannot possibly understand how we are not emotionally drained as of this moment."

Sherlock snorts at that.

"Sherlock, I know it's hard to deal with all that you are going through—especially with your parents _and_ your peers... but you should've at least let me help you when you're not okay... I don't blame you for—for not confiding in me... but when you do ask for some... help... I don't need the details if you don't want to... tell them... Just tell me when you're not okay..."

"John, you absolutely _do not_ need to know the details... It would advisable for everyone if you know less."

"Why?"

"If you knew all that has transpired, it will worry you even more. No, listen to me: I am avoiding all unnecessary worries. I have known you for quite a while now and the things I know will... cause you distress. I know it... I'm fine with my parents... I mean... It doesn't bother me as much as it did when I was younger... I have grown accustomed to it..." Sherlock shrugs. "It is terrible. I admit that much... but I'm used to it since it's been too long."

He closes his eyes. Sherlock just said the worst things possible. 

' _I have grown accustomed to it..._ '  
' _I'm used to it..._ '  
' _It's been too long_...'

God, he hates it. He hates those three sentences mashed together. Jesus Christ, he hates it so much.

To remember Sherlock's bruises, scars, traumas, reddened face, belt marks, despair, emotional scarring,  _everything_... and to hear him fucking say that he's grown  _used_ to that sort of treatment from his  _parents_?! from his  _biological_ parents?!

He is angry that murder is illegal.

"FUCK THIS SHIT!" he yells and jumps from his seat, throwing himself on Sherlock.

Sherlock emits a yelp of surprise at the sudden movement. He hugs the stupid bastard, squeezing him slightly and mindful of his still healing injuries. He tries to ignore the fact that Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to do and seems to be very sense. It only sparks up his anger at the thought that no one has shown Sherlock any kind of affection to grow so confused the minute he receives it.

The worst part is that it's a large possibility.

"Hug me back, Sherlock," he tells Sherlock.

"I—I don't know where to—I don't know how to..."

"Just mimic me. You're good at that. Just... adapt."

And so Sherlock does. When Sherlock finally hugs him back, he squeezes the younger teen once more. That seems to break every mask on Sherlock's body since the teen practically loses all tension and collapses on him, craving attention and affection entirely. He gives it all to Sherlock, rubbing his back as he feels him tremble in his arms.

After a few acceptable seconds, he lets go of Sherlock and pats him on the shoulder.

"Sherlock, you're worth more than you believe. Do you understand? You're worth _everything_. Never forget that. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock keeps quiet but nods slightly before groaning. "Rehab," Sherlock spits.

"You could have stayed clean, you know," he comments, standing up from crouching in front of Sherlock and back to the sofa.

"I know. I know. God, you're starting to sound too much like Mycroft."

"You mean I sound smarter than you?"

Sherlock glares at him with a frown but doesn't retort anything in reply. He and Sherlock both know that Mycroft is the smarter brother among the two— _far_ smarter, no,  _terrifyingly_ smarter than anyone they know, but is also too lazy to do any type of physical work.

In his point of view, it seems like Sherlock looks up to Mycroft, though he will never admit it, and Sherlock resents Mycroft for that.

"You know we will have to talk about that," he tells Sherlock.

"About what?"

"Your relapse."

"Yes, I know."

"Looking forward to it."

"No, you don't."

He laughs. "No, I don't."


End file.
